Bloodline
by MarauderMapper
Summary: RoseScorpius, because I don't get to read enough of them. Next Generation of Hogwarts students: two years in the life of Rose and co. Trying to fall in love in a world where their relationship is still, after all these years, simply not accepted.
1. Prologue

Bloodline

**Bloodline**

A/N: So, this story is a result of boredom over Christmas vacation. I've always been a fan of Rose/Scorpius and decided to write a fic about it. It takes place primarily during their sixth and seventh years. Not only did I want to write about their relationship, but I thought it'd be really intriguing to explore the "Second Generation" world. So, on that note, off we go!

Disclaimer: As much as I'd love to be the owner of a multi-billion dollar series, I am not JK Rowling. All material belongs to that Queen of Creativity.

**Prologue**

-7th Year-

Ron Weasley was a happy man come Christmas time. It was that one moment of the year when he was actually permitted to set aside his Auror work at the Ministry (not that he didn't occasionally slack off the rest of the year), invite his vast family, including the Potters, over for dinner, and settle down with a nice bowl of pudding brought especcially for him by Grandma Molly and a game of exploding snap. Yes, Christmas really was the season to be jolly.

The kids were busy decorating the halls and saircases of their twising home at the center of Diagon Alley (overseen, of course, by Hermione, who made certain they didn't swipe their wands out and get the job done too quickly). Grandpa Weasley was badgering Grandpa Granger on the principle of the bycicle while the two Grandma's gave themselves bustles through the rooms complaining on on their children never bothered to clean. Percy was coaching Hugo, Molly, and Lucy on their decorations while Uncle Charlie conjured moving figures of dragons for Hugo, who watched with bated breath but pretended he did not care simply because he was 15 and much too "mature" for such things.

There was a bang at the door; Bill's family was the first to arrive; the shrill tones of Fleur's French drifted in through the front hall, announcing the newcommers.

"'Ow many times must I tell you, Beell, Louis cannot fly in dees weather - "

"Please, Fleur, he just had to sit through an afternoon of your mother, he deserved it."

"But 'is asthma - "

"- was perfectly fine, now, I'm begging you, _relax_."

They were greeted by the family of five, ladden with gifts and leftovers from their lunch in Paris that day. Dominque, 15, tried to help 11-year-old Louis with his jacket and mittens but he shrugged her off. Victoire laughed in her sing-song voice, no doubt sensing another arugment between her siblings; she was currently a reporter for the Daily Prophet and was still wearing her nametag on the collar of her sweeping lavender robes. Hermione watched them set their brooms against the closet. "Don't tell me you flew over the Channel."

Bill smiled, the creases of his scarred face crinkling. "Just from London; we took the Floo from Paris to the Leaky Cauldron. I bought them all new brooms for Christmas and they wanted to try them out."

Fleur sniffed in dissatisfaction. "As eef they were worth the money; Quiddeetch ees such a drain on our time and financees."

"Tell that to James," Hugo called proudly from the spiral staircase as he strung dancing gingerbread men on the railings; they giggled at him with their tiny gingerbread mouths. James, their cousin, had recently been accepted into the Chudley Channons, the Weasley family's favorite Quidditch team. He was, however, fighting a losing battle; not even the prodigy James Sirius Potter could turn their luck around.

Ron peered into the living room. "Where's Rose?"

Hermione wrenched away from the cookbook Grandma Weasley had shoved in her face. "Went to King's Cross, remember? She's picking up her friend at the sation; he's staying for the holidays."

"Her _boyfried_," Hugo snickered; Dominuqe and Louis joined him on the stairs to giggle.

Ron frowned, his Christmas peace stirred slightly. "Boyfriend? Just who is this fellow?"

The Warlocks 5's new Holiday Hit started up on the radio; excited, the kids raced into the living room. An irritated Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, I'm sure he's perfectly fine. Just keep your distance and don't breathe down their necks, you do remember how your mother - " Noticing Mrs. Weasley's steady eye on her and the cookbook, she clammed up.

He turned around towards the kids. "What d'you know of him, huh? What are you laughing about?!"

"Lily, if you shove that cartoon in my face one more time, I swear - "

"But Al, if you turn it upside down and spin it, it tells you your future!"

"Yeah, well, that'll be pretty short in a few seconds if you don't shut up!"

"You're such a stupid prat!"

"Lily, Albus, be nice."

"_Dad_!"

The Potters stumbled into the kitchen; the kids were still dizzy-faced from side-along apparition. James sported his new Chudley Cannons practice robes, the regular braggert he was; Lily insisted on carrying The Quibbler under her arm, obsessed as she was in that kind of thing, while Albus was trying to brush her away. Ginny and Harry seemed utterly exhausted.

"Long day, Harry?" Ron grinned, completely over the boyfriend incident by now.

His best friend pushed ran a tired hand over his face. "Just put me down on the couch with a glass of firewhiskey and I'm set for the night."

Ginny pried Lily's wand away and forced the two apart, only to be attacked by her parents in a monster of a hug. Ron chuckled, safe, from the sidelines.

"Is someone wondering where George could possibly be?" called a voice from the doorway. "Because, is it just me, or do I hear the sounds of distant sobbing?"

The kids rushed to greet Uncle George, Aunt Angelina and their twin cousins Fred and Roxanne (15). "It appears we're the cool relatives again, Angeline," George said as he dug out various objects from one of his custom _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ shopping bags, causing quite the commotion.

"That much is obvious," Angelina replied beside him.

The troupe retired to the living room, just barely resisting the smells of the fabulous dinner waiting for them on the table. They sank into armchairs and sofas and discussions on everything from politics to Quidditch to rumors that were circling around Hogwarts at the moment. The Warlock 5 cranked away in the background ("The things they're listening to these days," scoffed Grandma Weasley, launching into another lecture) while the candles on the snow-crested tree glistend with the hope of a new year. The adults rememberd the darker Christmases of past, and they shivered at the unspoken: Fred's death, George's missing ear, the early years of The Order, and the ever-taboo name of Voldemort. The kids, though, the kids . . . they did not have the ability to feel it, and continued chattered on.

Grandma Weasley, Ginny, and Hermione were just about to serve drinks when, finally, a tuft of turquoise hair and a pair of determined eyes greeted them as their latest member made his way into the house; he still wore his lime-green St. Mungo's robes, clashing terribly with his hair. He was currently in the position of Trainee Healer in the Creature-Induced Injuries wing of the wizard hospital.

"TEDDY!" The children shrieked, throwning their arms around him, each scrambling to tell them the newest developments in their lives. Ted Lupin was a busy man; injuries in the wizarding world were, unfortunately, constant, and he was kept continually on his feet and did not have much time to visit his friends.

Ginny nudged George. "Who's the favorite now, George?"

Victoire drifted out of her rapid bilingual conversation with her parents to kiss Ted on the cheek; they beamed at each other.

"How come you never smile at me like that anymore?" George asked Angeline. She slapped his arm briskly and told him to shut up.

"Looks like the gang's all here!" Boomed Ron happily, completey and absolutely content. The sight of his family before him completed his vision of a perfect Christmas. How could anything, anything at all, possibly ruin this for him?

The door closed; Rose's voice, lilted with its usual sarcasm, made its way into the living room. "Did I miss anything?"

His "favorite daughter" stepped through the doorway, bright blue eyes gleaming mischieviously beneath her ever-curly chestnut hair. Ron's chest swelled with fatherly pride. How he loved his brilliant daughter, his accomplished Ravenclaw, his dear little Rosie was was currently pulling, but the hand . . .

His Christmas came, in one swift leap, crashing down. He and Hermione jumped to their feet within the moment. There, in their own home, wrapped around a Weasley waist was a very, _very_ Malfoy arm.

Something in the air seemed to explode; Ron, Hermione, and Grandpa Weasley were on their feet, and Harry and Ginny immediately sat up. Al stood between him, perhaps as a barrier, he didn't know. "What do you think you're going about?!" roared Ron, his wand hand ready, even though young Malfoy was just a kid. "Rose! Explain!"

Her voice, usually so keen to explain things in such great detail, seemed to catch in her throat. Grandpa Weasleys looked ready to lash out at something; the muscles in his neck taughtened visibly.

Hermione put a hand to her forehead, as if in a migrain. "We can try to work this out, Ron, we can."

He pointed a finger threateningly at the traitor. "You! Boy! What the bloody hell are you here for? Answer me!"

The boy stood tall but did not say a word. He glanced down at Rose for a word of advice, anything, to rescue him from her raging father. She sighed. "Dad, _please_ be mature about this - "

"Don't tell me to be mature, young lady!" he bellowed in a rage. "Don't you _dare_!"

Hermione tried to force his arm down, pulled his wand away. "Rose, we've told you about his family – Ron, for goodness' sake, _be still!_ – and we've told you how they feel about us. Why are you bringing him here?"

Grandpa Weasley was shaking his head in the corner. "And here I was thinking she was a smart girl . . ."

Rose stared out at them all, open mouthed, obviously at a loss. "I . . ."

"Told you they'd act like this," Lily called from her spot by the fireplace, outspoken as ever.

Quietly, but with a look of stern determination on his face, Malfoy reached down and took her hand in his, refusing still to speak. Ron snorted. He had a lot more willpower than his father, at any rate. He took a breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Rose. This boy is leaving. Immediately. We don't need another tragedy in this family."

Her ginger eyebrows shot up in shock. "I don't know what to say, Dad. I . . ." She seemd to tighten her grip on the intruder's hand. "I care about him."

Hermione lost her hold on Ron's arm. She fell down into her seat, surprised and perhaps a little sickened. Ron, on the other hand, refused to back down. "Out, Rose. Now."

She narrowed her eyes, and before she stormed out, Ron was reminded of her childhood days when she was turned down for something; she would wrinkle her nose, stamp her feet, and wail. Grown up now, she instead let out a shriek of anger as she dragged Scorpius Malfoy after her. Just as he was leaving, the newcommer opened his mouth and spoke his first sentence in their household: a rather long string of profanity.

The door slammed.

They were gone.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. "See he's still exactly like his father," he muttered.

Nothing could bode well from this.

One thing was for sure, Ron knew: Scorpius would never touch his one and only daughter _ever_ again.

A/N: So, at this point, their relationship is emminent; in the next few chapters we're gonna flash back to 6th year and go on from there. Thanks for reading!!


	2. Chapter 1: Scorpius' Beginnings

A/N: There's likely to be some typos here, as my spellcheck is currently not working; I looked it over, but I assume I missed quite a bit. This one's from Scorpius' point of view, a little shorter than the last one, but I kind of like this length ("That's what she said." Couldn't help it, guys.) Enjoy ;)

Disclaimer: Jo's.

**Chapter 1**

**Scorpius' Beginnings**

Scorpius Malfoy was not a fan of Rose Weasley. In fact, truth be told, he despised her. He hated her pixie-like features (she was always up to something), he hated the way her red curls bounced when she shook with laughter in class, he hated those enormous blue eyes and that loudspoken voice and, most of all, he hated the way she could twist his insides into a knot just by insulting him.

The first time he saw her was on Platform 9 ¾'s; the steam of the Hogwarts Express rose in billows across the hot pavement. His father and mother were seeing him off for his first year of school.

"You'll make us proud," his mother told him, putting a quiet hand on his shoulder. His father watched the Express carefully, eyeing the students as they packed away their trunks and waved good-bye to friends and family.

"Of course," his father scowled, "Management's changed a bit since my day; Mudbloods and Half-Breeds, the lot of them. You watch out for your Potions professor; Half-Centaur, I'm told." He glanced to his left, spotted a family of ginger-haired people, and nodded once, somewhat politely, before turning back to his son. "And you stay away from anyone with red hair, hear me?"

Scorpius removed his gaze from his shoes where he had currenlty been hoping he'd sink into the Platform and never emerge again; the nerves were threatening to tear him apart. "Why?"

"Bad family, bad blood." Without hesitation he pointed out a frazzled woman with bushy brown hair clutching two children by the arms: one an excited redhead, the other a scraggly, bitter brown-haired boy. "See her? Mudblood, through and through. Kids have got to have the same outlook as well. The girl's starting Hogwarts this year, too, if I'm correct." Scorpius focused on this girl, so full of life, so filled to the brim with enthusiasm where he would rather curl up and die. "Don't get too comfortable with her, Scorpius."

"Draco," his mother sighed, "Don't be so dramatic; they won't even be in the same House."

Draco Malfoy drew himself back up to his full height. "That's right," he replied. "Because my boy's about to become a Slytherin. Isn't that right?"

Scorpius could do nothing but shudder as he tore his gaze away from the redhead.

And then, in a blink of good-byes and Hogwarts Express candy and a ride across the lake, he was pushed to the front of a line in the Great Hall, forced onto a stool, and a hat was shoved onto his forehead.

"Hmm . . ." the hat seemed to ponder. "Another Malfoy . . ."  
_Yes_, he thought desperately, _now please, say Slytherin, say Slytherin, say Slytherin . . ."_

"Slytherin, eh? And what happens if you don't belong there?"

Of course he belonged there; he was a Malfoy, after all. _Please, my dad'll kill me if I'm not a Slytherin, please, please, please . . ._

"Well," the hat sighed, "Since you said 'please,' I think you'll do well in . . . RAVENCLAW!"

His insides caved on; a scattered cheer went up from the blue table, he wasn't sure what for, and Professor Robards took the hat from him and gestured towards a table where he did not belong. Slowly, he passed by the green-bedecked Slytherin table with longing; how could his father ever, ever forgive him?

There was a simple solution to this: What his father did not know wouldn't hurt him. He owled his father with great tales of pranks against the Gryffindors, Slytherin's progress in the Quidditch season, and vibrant detail on the Slytherin-Head-Of-House-Who-Was-Not-His-Head, the ancient Professor Goshawk. He paid Jacob Nott, a Slytherin Fifth Year, to transfigure the Ravenclaw eagle on his robes into a serpent before the Holidays.

"You're scared of your dad!" his fellow Ravenclaws taunted him.

He shifted away, trying not to think about it. "You'd be scared, too, if your dad was a Death - "

They were interrupted by a game of exploding snap, well, _exploding_ at one of the tables in the Common Room. Scorpius was glad; Death Eaters weren't exactly glorified anymore.

The first time he insulted her was his Second Year, and he did not know any better; they were thrown together as partners during Transfiguration, as their misfortune would often have it, and he was having trouble turning his textbook into a parakeet (and back again). Rose was chortling away, cracking a joke every time the title page sprouted a beak.

"Shut _up_," he snarled, throwing down his wand (9 ½ inches, quite slippery, this one). "You think you're so great? I'm surprised you can even do magic, what with your parents wanting to be Muggles and all."

In answer, she successfully transfigured the book. The parakeet took refuge in the rafters above.

He glowered in his seat. "Mudblood's girl."  
David Chang-Stephen, one of Weasley's chronies, spun around. "What'd you just call her, Malfoy?" His wand was immediately raised.

Scorpius scrambled for another gibe, anything to make that boy's proud face fall. "Oh, that's right, Chang," he spat. "You _would_ be offended by that, wouldn't you? Too bad your Muggle Dad's not here to hit me with a caveman's club, or somethng."

"_Take_ _it back_!" both he and Rose shrieked.

Of course, as always, Professor Thomas was on him in instants, landing him with a weekend's worth of detentions. Rose smirked at him as the Ravenclaws flooded out of the classroom for lunch.

He hated her.

He hated her smile, her laugh, her stupid Mudblood mum.

He hated her bare, tiny feet when he spotted her taking her shoes off near the lake on a warm spring day third year.

He hated how she always had an answer for everything, even if it wasn't the right one.

He hated her intoxicating scent when he sat behind her during the O.W.L.'s: a mixture of pine and apples and fresh laundered robes, with just a hint of cinnamon.

He hated how he wanted those wrists of hers to cradle his head,

He hated how he wanted to wrap a finger around one of those curls,

He hated how, sometimes, she gave him a genuine smile over the toast and jam during breakfast no matter how much they had fought the night before.

He hated how he did not understand her,

And above all,

He hated the way he was slowly falling for her.


	3. Chapter 2: School's In

A/N: Alright, I'm sending out a huge thank-you to the first two reviewers!! You guys are awesome. On we go into Year Six; I will repeatedly refer to Hermione and Ron by their names, as I can't see either of them as "Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."

Disclaimer: JK's. Need I say more?

**Chapter 2**

**School's In**

- Sixth Year -

Diagon Alley was sweltering in the summer heat. Rose Weasley, David Chang-Stephen, and Caitlin Goldstein were curled up in a discreet corner of Flourish and Blotts eating a hearty meal of ice cream in an attempt to chase away the warmth.

"Honestly, I hate it in here," Caitlin complained, taking a bite of her Norwegian Ridgeback Cherry. "It smells like dust and damp and words."

David lazily sat back, transforming his spoon into a plastic phoenix and watching it soar above their heads; he was delighted to find that this summer he was permitted to use magic; he just quite made the deadline. "Quit complaining," he mumbled, subdued as ever. "Rose wants to be here, so here we'll stay."

Rose's fingers skimmed over book spines – some of which snapped back at her – and searched for the last book on her list. She was taking eight N.E.W.T. classes this year; if she was to keep up with the ciriculum she may as well begin now. While Rose Weasley was amitious in her own way, she was in no way a clone of Percy, or even her mother; she took a vast number of classes, not because her field of study required it, but because she had not yet chosen that field.

Caitlin finished her ice cream and paged through Is She Seducing You, or Poisoning You? "Just take my classes and snag a job at the Ministry," she wailed in her boredom. "Let's be serious; your uncle's _Harry Potter_, for god's sake, you'll have more job offers than you'll know what to do with."

She was just reaching the R's when something moved on the other side of the bookcase; a person who, from the look of it, had just been listening in on their conversation. Rose removed a book to see through the shelves, her heart pounding; she had seen him in here at least four times this summer, it had to be him, the bloody git, it had to be –

"Rose!"

- . . . not the person she was expecting. Her cousins Fred and Roxanne were scheming on the other side of the shelf, pouring through a book that was emitting quiet squeals. Rose loved her family, and she, more than anything else, wanted to be a part of it; while David and Caitlin were the best friends one could ask for, she would give her left hand to be in Gryffindor. Yet at the same time, she could not escape her family; she couldn't get ice cream at Florean Fortesque's without being served by Lily, who held a summer job there; she couldn't brouse the brooms without being reminded of Uncle Harry as the handle of the newest racing broom glinted back at her (the _PotterBolt_, to be exact); she couldn't walk past the Office of the Daily Prophet without being spotted and avalanched by Ginny and Victoire; she couldn't buy new robes at Madame Malkin's without being fitted next to Dominique and Molly (who were constantly buying new robes); she couldn't go into Eyelops without running into Al and Hugo. Diagon Ally in the summer was, yes, sweltering, and was one big land of Weasley. Weasleys in the shops, in the street, buying things, selling things, flying brooms through the thinnest alleys and shouting to each other through the crowds. Weasley Alley _was_ Diagon Alley these days.

"What are you up to?" she asked the twins, as there was no doubt that they _weren't_ up to something. They always were. Fred and Roxanne shared a look. Rose realized she didn't want to know.

Leaving them to their "research", she turned back to her friends chatting, bored, over a Quidditch magazine. "I can't believe we're starting our sixth year already."

"Unless Caitlin here fails it," mumbled David. He was answered with a quick shove off of his perch on a shelf ladder.

"Just because I don't _enjoy_ writing three-foot-essays for Sinistra doesn't mean I'm an idiot," she snapped at him. He tossed a soft hex at her nonverbally – David was the king of nonverbal spells – and sent her into a fit of wand-enduced laughter.

Rose began to make her way through _Careerless? A Witch's Guide to Finding the Perfect Trade_ with a smile. She had grown used to their bickering by now.

The end of the summer holidays in theWeasley household was always a small piece of a disaster. Owls were hooting as they were packed away into cages; Hugo was wailing about socks; their mum was digging into a lecture about how they never wrote home enough and that this year had better be different; Rose was trying to pursuade her father to put a space-saving charm on her trunk to fit all of her possesions despite the fact that he did not know how; Roxanne and Fred were attempting to wreck havoc in their cousins' household instead of helping their father take inventory at the shop.

Hermione went rushing up and down the spiral staircases. "Hugo, don't feed Ringo now, you can't let him out on the train, you know," and "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Rose, please make an effort to leave some of your books here," and "Oh Ronald, honestly, get out of the way and I'll fix it." The front door swung on its hinges, allowing the noises of Diagon Alley to enter the halls. "Whatever happened to knocking?!"

Harry, looking quite frightened at Hermione's state of mind, backed out slowly.

By the time they were finally packed and making their way through the Leaky Cauldron (stopping for a quick hello with Hannah Longbottom, of course), Rose and Hugo were quite sure they never wanted to write to their mother ever again.

A ministry car waited for them on the London street, courtesy of the Auror Department. The Weasleys piled inside, finding that, though the car was magically enchanted, they were very uncomfortable with the number of people. Percy's elbow was lodged in Rose's side, and Roxanne nearly poked Molly's eye out with her wand tip (although that may not have been an accident). "Are we nearly there?" Louis, not yet old enough for Hogwarts, whined; he wasn't exactly thrilled with being dragged all the way to the station just to see his sister off. Fleur merely brushed his hair out of his eyes; her little boy always was her favorite.

At long last, the car parked at King's Cross, and before she knew it Rose was charging through the barrier. The wizarding world instantly welcomed her in a burst of warm train steam on the other side. First Years were running around frantically, stepping carefully so as not to dirty their brand-new robes, cats were clawing at their cages, Daily Prophet ads peppered the railings and columns; Rita Skeeter blinked her fake eyelashes feverishly from a poster, looking much younger than Rose knew her to be; Shacklebolt, who sometimes dropped by for dinner, was nodding from another article rippling in the steam, making some important decision or another in his photo. Rose was washed over with a feeling she usually associated with returning to Diagon Alley from Grandma and Grandpa Grangers' house: like she was alive after a long period of time, even though they had only been in Muggle London for a few minutes.

"Late, as usual," Hermione huffed, struggling to help all of her nieces and nephews with their belongings ("We can do it ourselves fine, Aunt Hermione, this isn't our first year . . ."). Ron and Harry met up with Mr. Finnigan and Mrs. Scammander, grinning and making small talk, primarily about their successful quest to take on Voldemort when they were kids.

Ron put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "When I was your age, I was figuring out ways to hunt down the seven pieces of Voldemort's soul."

Hermione spun around, hair sticking to her forehead in the summer heat. "If I remember correctly, that was Harry. You, on the other hand, spent your year threatening to quit the Quidditch team and bullying round Ginny's boyfriends."

He shrugged, deflated. "Still. 'S the moral support that counts."

The train's whistle sounded; students raced to find compartments. Hugo jumped onto the train before his mother could kiss him as James, the confident 7th year, led the younger ones off the platform. Hermione hugged her daughter tightly. "_Please_ stay safe this year, Rose; your father may talk about having fun and all that, but it really will pay off for you to concentrate on your studies in the long run."

Ron laughed. "Now, if _I_ remember correctly, Hermione, you were right beside us through all of our adventures."

She fumed. "To keep _you_ two from getting yourselves killed!"

Harry grinned behind his hand as he mumbled, so only Ron could hear, "Or worse, expelled."

Rose decided it was best to leave before things between her relatives got out of hand. She found Hugo's compartment on the Platform side immediately and stuck her head out the window just as the Hogwarts Express began to pull away. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Molly, Lucy, and Dominique waving from the compartment over. Slowly, slowly, the train carried them away.

On the platform stood a generation of Hogwarts students, a generation that made way for their generation: Ron Weasley had his arm slung over Harry Potter's shoulder, Hermione Granger was hoping her children aced all of their classes, Ginny Weasley beamed at her kids, Luna Lovegood's Thai skirts swirled in the motion of the train as she waved dreamily to her First-Year twins Lorcan and Lysander, Seamus Finnigan held the hand of Lavender Brown while they wished off their daughter, Percy shouted out a few last bits of advice, Padma Patil murmured a quick side-comment to Lavender, Cho Chang had tears in her eyes even though she had seen David off five times before, Ernie Macmillan waved until his hand was close to falling off, Angelina Johnson and George Weasley laughed as fifth-year Fred waved a _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ banner out the window.

Dumbledore's Army stood side-by-side, remembering times past, and watched as their children made their way into a world they themselves had made safe.


	4. Chapter 3: Love to Hate

A/N: I was having trouble with this one, namely introducing the new Headmaster. He's sounding a lot like Dumbledore as of yet . . . I hope to develope him further in future chapters, but please don't tell me he's a little "off" character-wise, because I know that.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

**Love to Hate**

_Remember, Scorpius. You are a Slytherin. Make me proud to be your father_. The words echoed inside his head as he sat down at the Ravenclaw table. Five years had passed since they had first placed the Sorting Hat on his head and declared him an outsider. Five years of Ravenclaw . . . how had he possibly survived?

Headmaster Grey stood, indicating the need for their attention; his twisted honey-colored hair warning them, the stinger of a bee. Headmaster Grey, as they all knew, was not one to ignore disrespect. Beside Scorpius Miles Bletchley (Jr), who was the only Ravenclaw he bothered to talk to, drummed his silverware against his plate in impatience; Miles had always appeared to have a slight twitch, a need to move. Scorpius rolled his eyes and directed his focus to the Headmaster.

Little was known about Professor Grey; in his earlier years he had worked as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries (still just as mysterious as it had always been), and after the Second War he'd taken over the post as Transfiguration teacher; since McGonagall had retired she'd appointed Grey as the best man for the job. And there he was, leaning on his leaf-bedecked staff, in all of his Grey glory. Grey was big on culture; he spent his off time traveling the world and bringing some of it back with him to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. So far in Scorpius' five years of education, students had participated in: a Kimono Day; a Mexican Siesta in the courtyard one spring night; a Carpet-Flying Race; a Stitchstock competition; and a Sphinx-Riddle Contest. Feast in the Great Hall were constantly improvised by his ethnic tastes; Halloween was distinctly Chinese, and End-Of-Year was often Greek.

Today he swept the arms of his Somalian robes past his elbows to greet them in a booming voice, "Welcome! Welcome one and all to yet another year at this fantastic school!" Scorpius and Miles snorted at his enthusiasm. "I've been doing some traveling this summer." Of course. "And I've been visiting schools in Africa, South America, and Australia. I was greeted in many different ways, some warm, some not quite so. But there was one thing I noticed when I returned to my home at Hogwarts: the unique atmosphere that is attributed to us and us only. Of all the students I have met with, spoken with, observed, Hogwarts students are, all in all, the most _accepting_." He rapped his staff against the floor to accent his point. "Acceptance, that is what we stand for. Hogwarts has been under fire for it for decades; Merlin, _centuries_, even." Scorpius tried very, very hard to stare at his empty plate and not make eye contact with his headmaster. "But we have withstood the test of time! Here at Hogwarts, we stand hand-in-hand with students of different backgrounds, different families, different abilities. And for that, I would like to congratulate you."

A scattered applause went up. He nodded, pleased. "On that note, I would like to say I, and the rest of the staff, am proud to call this our home. Whether you are incomming First Year or am spending your last few months here, I thank you for being here." He clapped his clammy little hands togethere. "Now! On with the feast, shall we?"

The food appeared, blessedly European, and the students of Hogwarts dug in, starving after the train journey. The new Ravenclaws gazed around with houself-sized eyes, eating their meal carefully, desperate and determined to fit in.

Scorpius had never tried.

"Strange old man, just as insane as ever," Miles snickered, cleaning his ear with his fork. "Suppose working as an Unspeakable does that to a person. Scary line of business."

"My dad told me Dumbledore was even crazier," he said. He had also told his son he had watched him die, but that was a different story. "Completely off his rocker, all his life. If you ask me, Grey's something of an improvement."

"Hardly. Come on; 'acceptance?' Who goes on about that anymore?"

Caitlin Goldstein, who had been in the process of cutting her Sheperd's Pie into miniscule pieces, set down her silverware. "Did you get anything about of his speech, Bletchley?"

He threw his head back and roared with mirth. "Speech? You call that a speech? Bout of insantiy, more like."

Next to Goldstein The Female Weasel glanced up, catching Scorpius' eye. She chewed, slowly, and refused to break contact. She always tried to make him look away first. She knew he hated it more than anything. The list also included: flying on a broomstick (when he could not; he was terribly inept when it came to Quidditch), helping him in class, lauging too loud in the common room, taunting his father in front of him, eating across from him at mealtimes (occasionally asking him to pass the butter; he never did, of course), breathing next to him in Charms, and existing.

Unable to stand another second of those burning big blue eyes, he blinked and went back to his food. _Damn_. Foiled again by that terribly captivating gaze.

The time soon came to leave the Hall and head to the dormitories. The students trudged up and down staircases, side-stepping into secretive hallways to avoid some of the more talkative paintings, hurrying around vanishable portions of the floor, exhausted from the feast. Scorpius noticed his least favorite Weasley leaning on the shoulder of Chang-Stephen; he sent a hex at her ankles to wake them both up. They jumped, startled as it burned the skin beneath their socks, and looked around. Those damnable eyes found Scorpius again, instantly, and she stopped in her tracks. The remainder of the Ravenclaws continued to the Tower, giving them strange looks.

Rose put her hands on her hisps, fingers dangerously close to the pocket where he knew her wand would be. Her expression glowed with fury; just the way he liked it. "Apparently, no one learned anything from Grey's talk, Malfoy," she said, shaking with her rage.

Scorpius feinted interest in serpent painting to his left. "I don't know what you're talking about, Weasley."

She just shook her head. "For a few seconds every year, I pity you." A few other occupants were peering out of their portraits, curious in this trading of words. "Just when we come back after summer, I look at you, you sitting all alone on the Express, you eating all alone at the table, you reading alone in a corner of the library, you watching Quidditch matches from your dormitory window because you pretend not to care. . ." He glanced up sharply, unsure how to react to this. "Yes, I see you, Scorpius. And for a moment or two I am sorry. And that's when you do something like hex me or my friends, or insult my family, or go against all _human_ protocol." Her face glistened with a kind of hatred in the candlelit hall. "You'll always be uncivilized to me, Malfoy. And, honestly, you're an outcast because you choose to be one; no one cares about you because you won't let them."

And with a spin of her Ravenclaw robes, she was heading back up the staircase before it moved, and rushing in the direction of the Tower. Scorpius opened his mouth for one last gibe, one last word, but she had gone.

He _hated_ the Weasley girl.

The first day back was never very eventful. Melanie Macmillan and Alder Bryons, the Ravenclaw Perfect Prefect Duo, had taken points from ten different students and had attempted to put twice that many in detention.

"Don't go stir-crazy with authority," growled Professor Robards from behind his desk during Defense Against the Dark Arts after Alder had confisticated a boatload of Weasleys' products from Laura Gilbert and threatened expulsion. Robards, previous Head of the Aurors Office at the Ministry of Magic and toughened by experience, tried again and again to impress on them just how lucky their generation was. He made it quite clear that, in his opinion, the stuff they learned in his class was completely useless compared to how desperately they needed it twenty-some years ago.He encouraged them to use to word "Voldemort" as a joke, allowed them to fool around in class but would then assign them three times the homework load, and had them each read aloud from _The Dark Lord Ascending_, Rita Skeeter's freshly written novel on the Second War. They acted it out, too, costumes and all.

And, somehow, some way, Scorpius was always landed with the part of Voldemort.

Their homework in Defense Against the Dark Arts was enormous compared to that in Potions; their professor was the Half-Centuar Lyra Decima. Scorpius wasn't sure what made her a Half-Centuar; she looked completely human, with the exception of a few Palamino spots on her arms. She loved to decide things by the stars, and aparently Monday's were terrible days to be blighted by education. "Go outside this afternoon and enjoy the sunshine," she wisely advised.

As it turned out, the Ravenclaws didn't have much time to enjoy the sun that afternoon; Robards had assigned an entire chapter, in addition to an essay, on the lethifold. Scorpius sat down on a window ledge in the library between shelves and spent his night writing about how Asian Muggles were smothered in their sleep by this blanket of fatal darkness.

By dinner, the sun was just barely beginning to set; the rays shone on his writing and slanted his words. He could hear voices down below on the grounds even from here; abandoning his essay for the time being, Scorpius peered through the pane to see the majority of the Weasleys – at least ten of them – magicking a Muggle soccer ball around in the air and racing after it with their brooms, assumably without proper Quidditch equipment. He caught sight of Rose's features as she hung, upside-down, from her broom, showing off for her cousins. Her curls swung in the September evening.

Smirking and hoping she'd somehow lose her balance, Scorpius turned away from the window and went back to rereading the chapter. Yes, he just loved to hate Rose Weasley. She made the days go by just a little faster.


	5. Chapter 4: Hate to Love

A/N: Alright, let's give it up for . . . ScreenName7, Lady Padfoot 21, SingingBird812, RandomObsessivePsychoFangirl, and Maissa for reviewing the last chapter. You guys "complete" me.

D: Jo's again.

**Chapter 4**

**Hate to Love**

In the dark depth of her second night back in the Fifth Year Girls' Dormitories she tossed and turned in nightmares of bookstores and lonely boys and blond hair. Dawn could not come soon enough to ease her aching mind.

But it didn't. Rose was weighed down by guilt as she dressed and went down to dinner. She did not know why. She voiced this to Caitlin as they descended the staircase leading from Ravenclaw Tower.

Caitlin paused in her rushed reading of the lethifold chapter as they walked. "Well, you did verbally nail Malfoy pretty hard in the gut after the feast."

Oh yeah. "How'd you know about that?"

"Heard it from the old warlock portrait on the third floor; you know, the one that narcs to all the professors about what's been going on in his hall?"

"I always hated him."

"Who doesn't?"  
Classes that day crawled by slowly; Charms, History of Magic, Muggle Studies, and Transfiguration. She was just thinking Herbology with Professor Longbottom at the end of the day would be a nice change when a stressed Second Year handed her a note from her Head of House.

"He says to see you immediately?" Albus read over her shoulder as they walked down the hall. "Guess that means you won't be in Double Herbology."

Professor Robards, Head of Ravenclaw House, had both feet and one arm in the Ministry. He took Rita Skeeter's advice to the grave, wore black on Scrimgeor's "death day," and had owls constantly running in and out of his office with news from the Minister himself. He was a do-it-yourself man, a Planner. Which, Rose supposed, was why he had called for her today.

"It's been a year, Miss Weasley," he began after she had taken a seat. "An entire year since I first asked you for your career choice and _you_ declined."

"I didn't _decline_, so to speak," she protested quickly; she had been over this millions of times with various heads of authority, including her parents. "I just haven't decided yet."

An owl pecked at the window, a severely important-looking parcel in his beak. Rose could spot the Ministry stamp on its wrapping immediately; of course. "That is simply not acceptable," he replied, opening the window. The owl perched on the back of his chair, appearing very official indeed. "All of your classmates – I repeat, _all of them_ – have already decided on a career, taken the sufficient O.W.L.'s, and are working their way through the N.E.W.T classes appropriate to that career. Why is it that you are left alone? You're a smart girl, not particularly responsible, but smart nonetheless. Why?"

"Professor, I'm taking eight N.E.W.T's - "

"- which is more than a student should be taking," he interrupted as he ripped open the package. "That is what we call 'unnecessary overload.' Do you find it easy taking that many?"

She bit her lip and gazed out the now-open window at the grounds; she could see the greenhouses from here, where she could be instead of this lecture session. Robards took her silence for compliance, and he slid an armload of pamphlets across the desk.

"Here I have information on _every wizard career_ that exists," he sighed, seemingly exhausted by her tardiness. "I'm begging you, Weasley, just pick one. Broom handler, wand maker, timeturner inspector, I don't care."

She stuffed the papers into her bag regardless of the fact that she already had all of them. Just before leaving him to his Ministry work, she paused at the doorway. "What do you suggest, Professor?"  
He glanced up, flustered, gray hair peppering his beard as he chewed on his quill. "Well, I . . . I don't think that's a fair inquiry, Rose, as it's your career we're talking about . . ."  
A nod. "That's what I thought."

She was gone before he could bother her again.

The greenhouses were stifling, reminding her of her summer. She joined Al, David and Caitlin at their plant before Longbottom could pair her with someone. "What is this?" she asked; they were looking at a wilting shrub.

"That's a Shudder Shrub, that's what that is," Professor Longbottom called from behind them; informative and beaming as usual, he accepted her pass from Robards and dug into the lesson. "Naturally shy but in need of company, the Shudder Shrub needs to be brought out of its shell a bit in order to survive."  
The shrub seemed to coil closer to its spine.

"How?"

He reached out a gloved hand and grasped one of its branches. "By tickling it, of course."

After his nod, Al plunged his hand into its leaves and began, she presumed, tickling; the shrub thrashed about, making odd, shrieking noises, and whacked David across the face. He stumbled back in surprise.

Professor Longbottom grimaced. "But, like most humans, it does not react well at first when tickled, and will immediately throw its branches in all directions. That's why you need at least three partners to hold it still."

David was rubbing the scratches across his cheek in remorse, as if to say, _you could've told me_.

The fire crackled merrily away in the Common Room after dinner that night. Instead of essays and texts and library books, pamphlets and advice booklets lay strewn across Rose's table as Lucy and Caitlin tried to help her decide. David was getting his face fixed up in the hospital wing.

"Banking?" suggested Lucy, no doubt thinking of Bill.

"Dreadful," she replied, incinerating the pamphlet her cousin was holding with her wand tip. "Too boring."

Caitlin held up another. "Obliviator?"

Rose shuddered, reminding herself of their newfound shrub friend from Herbology. "Why would I want to spend my day mind-wiping Muggles? I'd feel so terrible."  
"Pays well . . ."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather anything than that."

Lucy, a fourth year, rubbed the dark circles under her eyes and chewed on the ends of one of her braids in irritation, a bad habit of hers. She had always had a sunken complexion, as if everything stressed her out. "Well, my dad's happy where he is. Why not trying some Ministry jobs?"

". . . which is what I've been suggesting since day one," Caitlin grumbled, digging out the appropriate booklets. The Common Room was slowly emptying as students finished their homework and games of chess; Rose began to feel the nag of a future career tugging at her mind. "Let's see, we have here: 'the Department of Magical Games and Sports – How to Have Fun and Hold a Well-Paying Job?'"

Rose trashed it. "Nope. My aunt works there, gets way too crazy around Quidditch season."  
"But you love Quidditch."  
"I love playing it, I love watching it, I do not love weighing my entire vocation on it."

Lucy tried another. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"

"I'd hate to be the Ministry's policewoman. Next."

"Department of Magical Transportation?"

"I'm allergic to floo powder."  
"Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"

"Nope. I've seen the way Charlie lives and it's not for me."

The two looked at each other, aghast and unbelieving. Lucy soon announced she was off to bed, and, relieved, Caitlin followed. Before throwing the rest of the pamphlets into the fire she paused for a last word: "At this rate, Rose, you'll end up working as a dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron."

Rose stretched, aching to start her homework already instead of debate the topic further. "Now, there's an idea."

Frustrated and fed up, Caitlin stormed off; they shared the same tendency to anger quickly; it had proved quite trying to their friendship.

Deletrius was on her agenda for the night; Rose had spent Charms that day inventing ridiculous excuses for tardiness with David and had not gotten the chance to practice the spell. She pulled out a piece of parchment, drew a circle on it, and concentrated, swishing her want in a wiping motion. "_Deletrius_." Alas, it would be a long while until she, too, could produce an effective nonverbal spell. The first half of her circle disappeared as her wand swept over it, erased. Not too terrible.

There was a noise from across the Common Room; someone else was practicing the spell, too. She spotted blond hair and a frail neck. Malfoy. What a lovely way to cap off her evening. He didn't appear to notice her, submerged as he was in trying to erase something in his book. Without really needing to or wanting to, she watched him.

She hated the way he bent his head over his work as if it was absolutely crucial that he absorb the words through osmosis.

She hated the way he smile-smirked when his spell was successful.

She hated the way he held his wand: tight, but gentle at the same time, as though it was the head of an infant; he could not afford to lose it, but his grip _had_ to be mild, calm.

She hated the way he spoke when he didn't want anyone to hear him; she hated how his voice lodged in the depths of his throat and seemed to vibrate, deeply, there.

She hated the steady focus in his eyes, the focus that was so often absent on those rare occasions that he spoke to her.

She hated these small things about him, these small ticks . . .

Or maybe, just maybe, she hated to love them.

A/N: Alright, I may or may not update soon, as I am currently submerged in Scholastic submissions and work. I'll try, though. Everyone enjoy their weekend!


	6. Chapter 5: Occupied

A/N: Sorry for the later-than-usual update. I've been a bit busy lately ;)

**Chapter 5**

**Occupied**

Saturdays were not kind to Scorpius Malfoy; class was out, professors were locked away safely in their offices, his homework load shrunk as the hours crawled by . . . and yet, all in all, he hated them. He had to sit through his usual early-morning breakfast every Saturday watching his fellow students make plans to sneak off to Hogsmeade, to walk the Grounds, hang out near the Forbidden Forest, play of game of Gobstones in the Transfiguration courtyard, the usual sickening activities which usually implied the inclusion of "friendship." Ah, friendship: that of which rested at the top of his list of pet peeves. Completely useless.

Speaking of Peeves, here came the poltergeist now; he went zooming over and around the tables, knocking over the orange juice pitchers and toast stacks, a pale blob of destruction raging through the Hall. He paused, just once, to straighten his polka-dotted bow tie, and whizzed out through the double doors.

And so came the passing of Hurricane Peeves.

Perhaps they were simply in the eye of the storm.

His owl, a Tawny and speckled, dropped off for a visit consisting of a letter in his father's handwriting and a piece of sausage; after wolfing it down (politely) he flew off, homeward bound again. Scorpius scanned it for something new before tossing it away; it was the usual rubbish: study, stay out of detention, don't let "those Gryffindors" get the best of him, get a haircut. His father constantly complained about his son's hair; unkempt and unruly, he forced him into the barber's chair every summer. His mother was another story. "Quit bothering the boy," was her motto. Aside from her secretarial job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she did, well, nothing; for this, he sometimes despised her.

Filled up with breakfast and the occasional absurdity of his parents, Scorpius headed out of the Hall and ran, face to face, with Funny-Name-Potter. The two had reached a certain understanding since day one: they were not fond of each other, and curses were a necessity when it came to their antagonism.

Albus was the first to speak. "Heard you've been ruffling my cousin's feathers."

"Oh, so she reports to you now?" snapped Scorpius, angry for some reason at that little snitch.

They pulled out their winds in one fluid motion; however, a voice from down the hall called out for them to stop. Scorpius, with wand still drawn, glanced, startled, towards the voice. Mr. Lee Jordan, conch shell earrings jingling, came towards them at a fast gait. For fifteen years Lee Jordan had become an icon in the Wizard Radio business; his voice was played overhead in the restrooms of the Leaky Cauldron to the attic of the Shrieking Shack (which had now become an even more popular tourist attraction, newly named "The Hidden Hideout of You-Know-Who"). However, as McGonagall neared retirement and realized she needed a new caretaker after the dearly-departed Argus Filch (his funeral was attended by Mrs. Norris alone) left, and "Who knew Hogwarts better than George Weasley and Lee Jordan?" So, realizing the pay was satisfying and the job was relatively relaxing (aside from being begged for orders of Weasleys' Products by eager First Years), he took the position, keeping a small castle-wide radio talk show, airing every Wednesday at 8 c'clock, entitled "Hogwash." Scorpius himself tuned in some weeks. Not that he'd openly admit to that.

Jordan put up a hand for peace. "Right, not that I wouldn't enjoy a duel between you two, Grey really has been down my back lately about Hall Control, so if you would . . ." And with the flick of his wrist he sent both of their wands flying. The boys glowered at him.

"Since when have you followed school rules?" muttered Potter, still keeping an eye on Scorpius.

Lee Jordan shook his head, laughing, and retreated. "You kids're just sixteen . . . you'll learn, later rather than sooner, it's not all about the stupid side-rivalries."

Potter and Malfoy shuffled off in their separate ways, unaware their fathers before them had done the same, muttering of the hypocrisy of the administrative system.

As his Saturday seemed to stretch on forever, Scorpius made his way down the twisting hallways to the library. It had become an odd sanctuary to him over the years; musty and filled with the weight of dust and information, it was rarely crowded or particularly raucous, much to his liking. It was a corner of his world where he could sit, think, reflect, and exist. His very own Taoist shrine, if you will. Prepared for a full few hours of escape from bets on Quidditch, from jokes about houselves, from carelessly tossed hexes and jinxes, he rounded a bookcase in search of his usual window spot.

However, it was, on this particular Saturday, occupied.

Scorpius muttered an apology, moved on . . . and backtracked when he realized who exactly was taking his place.

Rose Weasley looked up from her homework at the window, shrugged, and gave him a glare. "What are you doing here?"

"Get out, Weasley," he ordered, irritated. "I'm not in the best of moods right now."

She laughed in that . . . _way_ . . . of hers, that _way_ that unnerved him to no end. "The library's plenty big enough for the two of us. Go find a table."

A table? Him? And give up his corner spot? His warm, quiet, sunny corner? Right. Stewing away in silent fury, he dug a hand into the pocket of his robes for his wand. "You'd better leave, Mudblood's Girl, or I'll . . ." His fingers grasped at fold of cloth and air. Nothing. Of course; he had left it downstairs when Jordan had disarmed him. Rose, seeing his distress, smiled and went back to her books, pleased with herself, a curly-haired cat sitting against the pane thinking she had the upper hand. Anxious to wipe that expression off her face Scorpius grabbed a book at random from the shelf and sat down on the floor.

She raised her eyes from her Runes. "Now what are you doing?"  
He flipped a page, pretending to be much too occupied for disturbance. "Reading. Why? Is that inappropriate in a library?"

"But do you have to do it here?"

He turned another page. The anatomy of a boggart? Hmm. "I believe I do."

And so they sat, reading, tension building, their anger brewing away in the dust. Rose licked her finger once to flip a page; Scorpius shivered. He absolutely hated it when people touched their dirty, saliva-infested fingers to the page. Seeing it bothered him so much, she made sure to do it again.

"Stop it," he growled.

"What? Something bothering you?"

Once he hit the chapter on the brain of a boggart, he knew it was time for different reading material; he began to pull out different books from behind him.

It disturbed Rose; she looked at him, frowned, shook her head in the Saturday sun, and put down her quill. "Would you just pick one already?"

"I'm browsing."

"Well, make up your mind."

He heaved a fake sigh. "Typical Muggle impatience."

Her brow tightened. "In case you don't remember, Scorpion, I was the one who out-dueled you Third Year. Or is your bloated head incapable of memory?"

Scorpius prided himself on being the better person by not replying as he finally settled on one of the wizard classics, _Stale_ _Spell_. Though a night of torture could not force the truth out of him, Scorpius Malfoy was, in essence, a reader. He thrived on metaphors, on twisting phrases, on analysis so deep he was wading up to his knees in words. It was his own kind of magic, the kind that he hid within the dark corners of his mind where nothing, not even the rawest forms of Legilimency, could search it out.

As he began to lose himself in words and sentences, he barely noticed the light outside begin to shrink and change colors, much less did he realize Rose was still sitting there, trying her best to irritate him in one way or another. Somewhere seemingly far away they could hear the stampede of feet making their way down to dinner. Dinner already? After checking his watch and closing his finished book, Scorpius was just about to stand when he saw the gleam of triumph in Rose's eyes. If he stood, if he left now, she would have won, therefore claiming his spot by the window forever.

There was no way he would take that.

Defiantly, Scorpius settled back down. "What, you're not hungry?" he leered at her when she didn't make a move to get up.

She set her jaw. "Stuffed, actually." She couldn't have been; neither of them had had lunch.

"Good. Neither am I."  
"I'm glad for you."

Outside the sun glimmered on the horizon. Scorpius averted his eyes and ignored his empty stomach. "See today was a loss for you," he said, pointing to her textbook; she was on the same page she had begun on. "My father tells me your father was a lazy cheater; suppose you got that from him, then?"

Something went off in the irises of her eyes; her pupils shrunk to pinpoint size. "You want to talk fathers now?" she snapped. "My parents say your Dad only redeemed himself after the Second War because he was scared. Scared of the Death Eaters, scared of the Ministry. He used to cry on the boys' bathroom. _Cry_."

Scorpius blinked. Of course the filthy witch would lie about that. "You're bluffing. You know nothing about him."

She almost, _almost_, sneered, reminding him a little of himself. Damn. "He ever tell you he killed Dumbledore? He ever brag about that to you? Cuz he didn't. He was a foot away, and he couldn't. Because he was just a coward."

This particular information bewildered him. His father had told him he had been there, on the top of the tower that fateful night, not that he had tried to . . . He shook his head viciously, determined to chase her words away. "Just shut up, alright?"  
"Blunt, and ineffective," she went on. "And you call me nonmagical? You're the one who can't even keep track of his wand . . ."

"_I_ _said shut up!_" He was on his feet now, shoulders heaving, just as surprised as Rose appeared; he was not one to lose his temper. He grasped for something, anything, to throw at her verbally. If only he had his wand. "Yeah?" What could hurt her more than she had already hurt him? "You think I don't hear the things they say about you? Just as stupid as your father, and not nearly as 'brave' or whatnot. Your parents were the Gryffindors, the student pets of their time, and your entire family's followed suit. All except you." She dropped her fierce posture in shock. "They say the Sorting Hat had no one where to place you because you're unextraordinary; you're less than mediocre, you're below average, just below the line. They say it would have put you in Hufflepuff had there not been too many students in it already."

She opened her mouth to protest, to say something, anything, back, but she was at a loss, just this once.

He smirked as he delivered the last blow, knowing he had hit a nerve. "You don't belong anywhere."

As the last rays of sunset disappeared beyond the hills of the grounds she stood, not even bothering to pick up her homework, and shoved past him, pushing him into the bookcase. His spine hit wood painfully as she hurried off down the rows. He hoped she was crying; it'd serve her right for saying those things about his father.

Dinner tasted even better after his skipped lunch. Sighing, he sunk into the conversations of his fellow Ravenclaws as he enjoyed his sandwich. The Prefect Duo was complaining about how they'd like to take over Jordan's job, Laura Gilbert and Olivia Pearson were giggling away about James Idiot Potter, Owen Spinnet was planning out Quidditch auditions with Fiona Taberts, Miles Bletchley was going on about the misdeeds of the Weasley twins.  
Yet, no matter how buried he was in conversation, her fury, her tone, came back to him.

_Used to cry in the boys' bathroom . . . _

_Scared . . . _

_Killed Dumbledore . . ._

_Just a coward._

Not feeling quite so hungry anymore, Scorpius got to his feet and headed for the dormitories, a little sick to the stomach.

He never pretended to know much about his father; he was a figure much too far away to reach. Sure, he patted Scorpius on the head when he was a kid, but not once did he ever sit on his knee, tell him things, secret things, or laugh with him. He was a distant man, always at work, always at balls and charities and sporting events. He'd sit next to Scorpius at dinner and yet his voice would seem a million miles away. When Scorpius was too little to know better, he'd sit beside his father's desk and watch him write letters, the white feather of his quill flying in the candlelight of the study. The arm of his robe would slide to his elbow as he wrote, enough for him to see the old Death Eater mark faded into his skin. Scorpius touched it, once, just once.

He never set foot in that study again.

As he neared the door up to Ravenclaw Tower, he heard a voice, shaking with emotion and weariness.

". . . why won't you get it?! I'm tired, I want to go to bed, I've given you a million answers!!"  
"_What can strike at anytime but remains at bay when one most needs it?_" the door knocker replied coolly, as it always did when a Ravenclaw couldn't get an answer.

"I don't know," she cried, and he saw it was Rose Weasley. Her shoulders shook, her curls drooped, the fierceness in her eyes faded. "Lightning!"

"_What can strike at anytime but remains at bay when one most needs it?_"

"Please! Let me in, just this once, I'm begging you! I can't think right now!"

"_What can strike at anytime but remains at bay when one most needs it?_"

He didn't know why, he didn't know if it meant anything to him or her or anyone, but Scorpius opened his mouth. Scorpius spoke, and Scorpius gave her an answer. "Inspiration."

Whispering a thank-you, the door swung open. Rose's head whipped around as she caught sight of him. Her eyes narrowed, her grimly set mouth seemed to accuse, _you_. She looked even worse than she had in the library. Broken. He had never seen a Weasley broken. And, for some unfathomable reason, he did not like it.

Was this the feeling they named "pity?"

She closed her eyes and rested her head on the cool surface of the wall. She didn't say anything to him.

Didn't even try.

A/N: I'm thinking about having a little Quidditch in the next one, what d'ya think?


	7. Chapter 6: Risky

A/N: Oh man, long time no update. I've been buried in either auditions, submissions, choir concerts, Jazz gigs, work, and studying for the past two weeks or so. I did, however, manage to scribble out this little chapter in my spare moments of time. Updates should become much more habitual once my exams finish next week.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's; haven't we established this already?

**Chapter 6**

**Risky**

Rose would have slept for the entirety of her Sunday had Caitlin not threatened to drag her out of bed and off to Quidditch trials by the ears; Owen Spinnet, ever the honest captain, had her show up even though she'd been on the team since her fourth year. It was, due to her luck lately, pouring outside; she awoke to the lectures of her best friend and rain against the glass pane, drifting in and out of consciousness and raindrops. Why did she feel so sick?

Oh yeah. Malfoy.

". . . and I'm sure Owen won't be happy if you show up there in your pajamas, who knows, he's so strict he might not even let you on the team again . . . God, I hope it's not storming, I'm terribly irritated of thunder, d'you think it'll start storming? Of course you don't, you're much too optimistic for those things . . ."

She remembered the things he had said to her the night before, and most of all, the things he had gotten right. Now he knew exactly what buttons to push next time he saw her and would not hesitate to torment her everywhere she went with things like "You're not a Hogwarts student" and "You don't belong" and "No one really wants you here." Peeves would seem a relief compared to the Malfoy Boy.

" . . . I doubt there's any real talent among the Second Years, or even the Third Years, for that matter. But then again I was wrong about Tristan Maddock before he tried out. Best Beater we've had in ten years? Ha. Sure doesn't look the part . . ."

Actually, now that she thought about it, Peeves was beginning to sound like a relief next to her best friend as well. "Caitlin, would you _shut up?_"

"Oh, _now_ she's awake."

The pitch was already a cesspool of mud and slipping Second Years when she finally made her way down from breakfast. First timers were struggling to mount their brooms in the torrent. One dim-witted kid tried casting a Bubble-Head charm on himself as a shield from the rain; unfortunately he ended up sprouting scales.

"Not the brightest lot this year, eh?" Tabs called to her from one of the goalposts. She was taking a headcount and marking down names for future reference. Fiona "Tabs" Taberts was the heart and soul of the team and one hell of a Chaser to boot; she dyed her hair a different color every month and wore ragged t-shirts that often shouted insults at anyone within a five foot radius. She was also an unregistered animagus and proved very useful to the Ravenclaw Team on match days. The Slytherins often did not suspect a red-beaked falcon perched on a tent pole behind them of eavesdropping on their play-by-play instructions. Many a match was won with the help of Tabs' "little friend," as Owen liked to put it.

Both Chasers looked out on the group assembling in a line, clutching their broomsticks and wiping precipitation from their foreheads. Rose scanned the crowd for talent and thought she saw it in small doses: a confidently-posed Sixth Year here, a Fifth Year there who actually knew the proper way to carry a broom. And suddenly, out of nowhere, she saw him: standing on the edge of the group, dark robes whipping in the wind, clutching the smooth ivory handle of an umbrella to keep him dry from the quell (no doubt handed down to him by daddy dear, of course), stood Scorpius Malfoy in all his pale, pessimistic glory.

The nerve of him

Without a word to Tabs she hurried down the pitch, fingers tightening against her knuckles, absolutely infuriated. This was her territory, her domain . . . how dare he step foot on the one place she was safe from him?

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she shouted once she was within hearing distance. Catching sight of her, Scorpius gave her a look of disgusted loathing. He didn't even grace her with a response.

Inside, the volcanic heart of Rose Weasley erupted in fury. Quick to anger, as always. "Hey, Malfoy. I'm talking to you."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to speak with you," he replied. "I'm here to talk with the captain."  
She scoffed. "What, you and Owen get into some sort of warped argument again?" Neither could accurately be described as "friend." The two were constantly getting into debates in Transfiguration. Their grudge was known to follow them out of the classroom. He did not nod. Rose was at a loss until . . . "Wait a minute. You're not trying out, are you? Trying out for the Team? _My_ team?"

Scorpius smirked. "Why, does that threaten your position?"

She laughed, a bitter, ugly sound as the wind carried it away to the darkened skies. She had seen Scorpius try to fly, everyone had when he was a First Year, and the image of his failure had never left anyone's minds. "Please. Do you even know what a quaffle looks like? How bout a bludger? Or a _broom_, for that matter? Unless you're planning on flying that umbrella of yours . . ."

They were interrupted by Owen Spinnet touching down from his recently airborne position. Spinnet was broad-shouldered, long-nosed, and opinionated: he had always been the natural leader of the team, even before he was made captain. He knew how to deal with things, with people.

At the moment his eyes were narrowed. "Something wrong here, Malfoy?" he asked coldly, speaking his name as though it were a curse.

Scorpius regarded him with the same iciness. "Yes," he replied, making sure to look Rose's way as a he gloated. "I'd like to try for the team."

"You?" Owen asked, taken aback. Apparently he hadn't forgotten Scorpius' first flying lesson, either.  
He couldn't be; he had no broom, he had no experience, and Rose knew he had no love for humiliation. She knew this because she was the one who so often sought out ways to humiliate him.

Off in the distance, somewhere in between raindrops across the pitch, Tabs called for her captain; Owen mounted his broom and waved the situation away with a hand. "I don't have time for this," he said, hovering a foot above them. "You deal with him, Weasley." And off he went, hurtling down the pitch.

Rose turned to her archenemy. She saw a similar glint of hatred in his eyes. It was as if he had never answered the riddle for her the night before. She pointed an accusing finger. "Why are you _really_ here, Scorpius? You hate flying. You hate Quidditch. You hate crowds. You hate Tabs, you hate Owen, you hate _me_. What's your reason?"

He looked up at the sky, silently sighing; though he pretended to put on a relaxed act, his jaw was clenched, as always. Maybe he was just born that way. Without sparing her another glance he tightened his grip on his umbrella handle and began walking towards the path leading back up to the castle, feet forging leftover-Malfoy-tracks in the mud behind him.

Rose refused to back down. "Answer me!" she called to his retreating shoulders.

He turned, just slightly, jagged features exaggerated by the flash of lightning behind him, miles beyond Hogwarts but still enough to make the Ravenclaws jump. He was slumped, hand in pocket, hair in his eyes because he apparently had more important things to do than care about the triviality of appearance. He spoke to her for what she hoped was the last time that day. "You say I hate all those things, Rose," he said, raising his voice to match the rumbling thunder in the distance. He used her first name. He never used her first name. "But you forget one thing."

"What's that, scorpion?"

He almost smiled. Not quite, but it was the closest a Malfoy could come to grinning without someone being tortured before their eyes. "I like the rain."

And away he went, loping up the path, black umbrella bobbing among the rocks as he walked further and further away. Rose, still irritated and confused (and soaked by the storm), didn't bother following; the pest-de-jour was gone, for now, and that was all she cared about.

Wasn't it?

Auditions went fine, as they normally did; a few eager would-be-Beaters were sent to the hospital wing as a result of bludger mishaps, but Madame Pomfrey stitched them up in instants. The new Ravenclaw Quidditch Team gathered in the entrance hall after the trials, rainwater gathering in pools on the flagstones as Owen gave them a quick debriefing on practice schedules (Craig Donovan, not the smartest apple in the basket but a strong Keeper nonetheless, had Remedial Potions on Wednesdays and Livie Conway, their new Beater, was tied up with Gobstones Club on Friday nights).

"I saw Scorpius," David, Seeker, murmured to Rose as they sat on the steps of the staircase, tired and muddy.

She snorted, wringing her hair out. "And you think I didn't? Nearly killed him with my bare hands, as usual."

He grinned, as if he thought the entire ordeal funny. "As usual . . ."

Owen took robe sizes for the two newcomers to the team, promising them he'd get Wood to send out the orders for new brooms and Quidditch robes as soon as possible. As the team trudged off to dinner he approached David and Rose on the stairs. David nodded to him politely. Rose, on the other hand, was too exhausted for any form of recognition.

He jerked his head at David. "Hey, Stephen, thought I heard Caitlin Goldstein asking for you. She's eating dinner. Her voice is loud enough, anyway."

David glanced from Owen to Rose warily before setting off for the Great Hall. While Caitlin had the biggest voice he'd ever heard, he knew it was a lame excuse. Something was wrong. Something was up.

Perching his broom against the railing Owen sat down beside her on the step. Lines etched into his forehead with worry; he had on the same look he wore on match days. "You didn't fly well today, Rose."

And here it came: the lecture. Just what she needed right now. "It was raining," she sighed.

"You fly fine in the rain," he replied, shaking his head. "I've seen you spin through obscene weather better than anyone, I've seen you knock James _Potter_ off his broom in a thunderstorm." Rose smiled at the memory; he'd been sore for a week. "You're an improviser, Rose, and though you may not be the fastest, that's something we don't have. Today, it just wasn't happening. And we both know why."

She pretended to be very occupied with her sopping shoes.

Owen kneaded his forehead as if he could erase the lines there. He stood, handling his broom with care. "Don't let Malfoy get to you, alright? He's a disaster just waiting to happen anyway. Ignore him, stay away from him, leave him be, and you'll be safe."

She said nothing as he walked away, every soggy footstep a heavy load. He was right, of course. Ignoring Scorpion Face would be the smart thing to do. But then again, she was a Weasley, and Weasleys did not just take these things sitting down; now that, _that_ was the _right_ thing to do.

The Prefect bathroom was blessedly empty when she entered; Rose was not and would never be a prefect, but David was on friendly terms with Alder Bryons (simply because David was on friendly terms with everyone), and the password eventually wound its way down to Rose and Caitlin, who were delighted to delve in the bathroom's various luxurious: the bubbles, the colorful water, the privacy. She turned on the water and stripped off her filthy Quidditch attire; a warm bath was always the best remedy for after-practice-blues. The suds seemed to fill the entire room, coating everything in a glossy cover. She ran her fingers through her hair, battling wind-swept tangles and bits of grass (how they had gotten there she knew not). The rain pounded against the window, but she was safe here in this warm paradise, where she was alone . . . completely alone . . .

And, as if the thought was a jinx, the door that she was meant to have locked (but didn't) swung open, giving way to a figure.

"Oh – no – I'm so sorry -" he stammered, seeing her naked shoulders above the water, and began to walk out.

She shrunk below the water level and looked behind her. Her heart sank, her senses buzzed in anger and alarm. "Scorpius," she spat.

He stopped at the door, realizing whose bath he had stumbled upon, much like the scene in the library and yet not like it at all. A cold smirk spread across those thin lips. "Ah. Weasley," he leered, drawing out her name for as long as possible, as if saying it was hurting her. "Funny, seeing you here."

"Get out!" she shouted, boiling away with that Weasley anger. "You don't want me to do something drastic." But suddenly she saw his gaze fall to the bench off to the side, and she was obliged to follow it: there her wand sat, the dark mahogany ominous in the flickering candlelight as it sat beside her robes. This time it was she who was powerless.

Scorpius, understanding he had the upper hand, crossed his arms over his chest, very pleased with himself. "You can tell I'm enjoying this, can't you?"

"Get out!"

"And that makes this all even better." He stepped forward, but not too close. He seemed so eager, a kid rewarded with an unexpected treat. Here, he could get back at her for all those stupid pranks she had pulled on him over the years. Here, he could humiliate her more than she had ever done to him. Here, he had his own form of power. It occurred to her that, no matter how pompous and self-righteous he acted, he was usually not the one in control of the situation. This alone seemed to exhilarate him.

There was only one way to beat him at his game.

"Makes what even better?" she asked, sneering in turn, the perfect imitation.

He stepped one pace closer. Just one. "You know."

She shook her head, slowly, so as not to disturb the bubbles. "I've no idea what you're talking about. Now, if you don't mind."

"I'm not leaving."

Of course he wasn't. "Stay or go, scorpion, makes no difference to me." Behind her she could hear him pause, puzzled and unsure. Now that she had practically invited him he didn't know which way to turn. Caught.

The voice that she knew to be his fake-bold-voice (the one he had used in countless situations between them over the years) echoed in the high-ceilinged bathroom. "Well, then, there's no doubt about it: I'm staying."

"Great," she said, soaping up her hair.

He took another step. "You know something, Weasley?" And another step. "You're too arrogant for your own good. You don't know when to quit."

Oh, and he did? If either of them knew what was good for them they would have stopped speaking years ago. "And yet," she said, trying her best to keep the bite from her tone, "you're the one standing behind a girl that's _trying_ to take a bath."

He was silent for so long she had to glance back over her shoulder to catch what was wrong. There he stood, hands hanging at his sides, utterly expressionless. That was right, she had forgotten: the Malfoys were incapable of showing any emotion. She wasn't sure what bothered her more: his sheer lack of emotion or the fact that he was the one she could never read.

And sometimes, when she wasn't busy hating him, she thought he was the one she wanted to read most.

He shook his head and looked away, and she thought she saw a flicker of discomfort in his face. "I've got Charms to do." The thrill of the upper hand had diminished into am awkward situation; he realized just how ridiculous the scene was.

She didn't know why she said it, why she asked it, but she did. And that made all the difference. "Wait."

Scorpius stopped at the door but did not turn around.

Rose bit her lip. "Why did you help me? Why did you answer the riddle?" The question had been pestering her since that night, that unexplainable moment after their fight.

He stiffened, paused, and steeled his back as if drawing strength. "Because I didn't do it for you," he told her coolly. "I had to get in, too. I did it for me."

And for the second time that day he turned his back on her and walked off. And in that moment, though she was free to finish cleaning up, eat a hot meal, and go on with her life without him there, Rose felt a stirring of disappointment.

She didn't dare dwell on why.


	8. Chapter 7: Ying and Yang

**A/N:** Phew . . . so, due to my computer's lovely inefficiency, I had this entire chapter written out days ago, all ready to be posted for today, and it totally without warning decided to delete itself. Gotta love technology. Anyway, this entire chapter is a rewrite; it's much shorter than before, but I hope I cleaned out some of the crap that was in it along the way. So on we go . . . also, there's a hint to the meaning of the story's title in this chapter. Keep your eyes open.

**Chapter 7**

**Ying and Yang**

Scorpius stormed back into the corridor, more bewildered than ever. For some unfathomable reason, the vision of her shoulder blades, of the grass and dirt in her hair, of those two wonderfully confused blue eyes, of the freckle on her back refused to dislodge itself from his mind.

He noticed a freckle on her back?

He _couldn't_ notice a freckle on her back.

And why was it that now all he could think about was that repulsive freckle on Weasley's back?!  
Needless to say, he was seething by the time he finished the rest of his homework and went to bed; her voice followed him into sleep, submerged between dreams and nightmares; she was flying as he watched from afar, she was laughing in the Great Hall, so loudly that members of the other Houses glanced up from their toast and eggs, she was giving him those odd smiles simply because she didn't, after all, keep grudges as he did, no matter how fierce she pretended to be. On and on it went, until he plunged off the cliff of their troubles and was swallowed by a smoky Dark Mark, and his father was saying, _Not_ _you. Not my son._

As Scorpius dragged himself into that world between reality and dreams as he thought he heard the other Ravenclaw boys getting up and heading down to breakfast, a memory slid across his mind, a greasy film over his eyelids he had long since tried to forget.

He was six.

Five, actually; he was turning six at 7:00 that evening. It was his very first birthday party, the first of many involuntary gatherings to come. Scorpius sat beside the fireplace, sulking, as he watched the household bustle around him: Mum was ordering the cook around, fixing the cake's frosting with her wand between lectures on the chicken and salad sauce; Dad was welcoming guests at the door, Ministry parents, mostly, shaking the hands of little children Scropius had never seen been before.

"You remember Tyson here, Scorpius? He was in your Beginner's Broomstick class last month." He didn't.

"How about little Nova? Purest little tot in your play group, wasn't she?" He was certain he had never seen this pig-tailed girl before. They were all the same. Apparently none of them cared about him, either; they took one look at him and rushed out onto the back lawn where Granddad had hired out a baby dragon.

He was just beginning to attempt eating the frosting snitch off of the cake while his mother's back was turned when he heard raised voices from the hall.

"I'm sorry – _so_ sorry, Mr. Malfoy – but, I mean, I couldn't just leave him at home -"

"He's a _Mudblood_."

"Yes, I'm aware, but his mother works across the street from us, wonderful woman, very hardworking, and she needed us to babysit, and -"

Cautiously, so his father wouldn't see him, Scorpius peered around the doorway. A Ministry witch stood at the door in front of his rigid-backed father, holding the hand of another uninteresting girl and . . . the hand of a little boy. Now, here was something interesting.

The little boy's cheeks were scarred by some form of birthmark; he was tapping away at a little cube in his hands, covered with different colored squares, sliding the panels around. It didn't appear magical, and thus could not be a proper form of entertainment. Scorpius wondered why he bothered playing with it.

His father was shaking his head, piercing eyes fixed on this woman. "I won't allow him here, Alma. He is a parasite, a blunder in perfectly pure blood lines just waiting to happen. Your family, more than anyone, should know that."

There could have been tears in her eyes. "But – _please_ – he's a wizard, after all. No difference."

Just by watching the frigidness of his father's posture was enough to scare Scorpius. "No . . . difference . . .?" His voice shook. "No difference, you say, between _my_ son, my son kept pure by centuries of careful awareness of bloodlines, and this piece of . . . _filth_?"

The woman covered the Mudblood boy's ears. Her expression turned set, stone-cold. She took a breath. "You may not like it, Mr. Malfoy," she murmured dangerously. Scorpius wondered where this burst of bravado came from. "But the wizarding world can't remain pure forever."

With one swift sweeping gesture of his wand, Dad sent the door flying, slamming it in the witch's face. Scorpius jumped. His father, his proud and terribly cold father, walked right past him without notice, robes sweeping across the parquet.

Defense Against the Dark Arts began that day with the dull handing-out of Rita Skeeter's novel. Robards hummed a Ministry hymn to himself as he assigned parts for their passage. "And, last but now least, do we have a Dark Lord?" No hands raised. "What, no takers? But it's the title role!" Still no hands. "Alright, I'm going random here . . . ah . . . how about . . . ah, Scorpius, what about you?"

Miles nudged him; Scorpius groaned inwardly. As he and the other "actors" moved up to take their place at the front of the room he found he was walking beside Rose Weasley. He thought of that freckle. _Damn_.

"From the top," ordered Robards as he sat down at his desk, beginning yet another official-looking letter. "We left off at yet another of the Dark Lord's murders, which was necessary for the creation of what we now know to be his sixth horcrux – Bertha Jorkins, quit playing with that hat!"

Rose, aka Bertha Jorkins, was laughing with Goldstein as she transformed the ridiculous prop she had been given into a flamingo and back again; whenever a Ravenclaw needed to cheat on one of Professor Thomas' exams, it was Weasley they went to; she had always been the queen of Transfiguration. Scorpius felt a twinge of anger – maybe because he hated her, and maybe because he had no one to laugh with when _he_ turned hats into flamingos.

One thing needed to be known about Rita Skeeter: she was a gossiper, she was a fraud, and she was, above all, a faux romantic. Her "theory" of a relationship between Voldemort and Bertha Jorkins did not go unnoticed after the publishing of her latest novel, and was actually celebrated among her loyal fans.

It was just Scorpius' luck that he and Weasley were "volunteered" for these parts.

The reading did not go over well; it was sickeningly filled to the brim with soft adjectives and strange dialogue that didn't seem to follow the natural image of Lord Voldemort. After yet another seemingly seductive line was dished out to him Scorpius was tempted to gag.

However, it didn't end there.

In the course of the reading, Scorpius hit on _crucio_. Professor Robards had a strict policy with the Unforgivables in the reading sessions: it was to be said quickly, with no magical connotation, without thinking, even.

Scorpius didn't think, that much was sure.

But when he looked into her blue eyes, he heard his father's voice. He heard _her_ voice, mocking him, taunting him. Memories flooded back of the pain she had brought him over the years, of the fury, and, most importantly, of the uncertainty. He remembered the things she had said about his family, and he remembered that she knew what he feared most: humiliation.

And so he said it: "_Crucio_."

There was a flash.

She shrieked, the class gasped, she was on the ground holding her head in her hands. That was it; the curse hadn't affected her entirely, but he had done it. He remembered different words of his father, back when he was still allowed in his study: _You have to mean it_.

And Scorpius was shocked to find he had.

There was an uproar; Rose was rushed to the hospital wing despite protests of "I'm fine," Robards threatened expulsion and dragged Scorpius out of the classroom and down to the headmaster's office by the robes.

"Students – in my day - " he roared, barely able to speak, "Never – had the gall -"  
As they walked he could see the portraits gazing down at him, whispering behind pastel hands. _Only expected_, they murmured. _He's a Malfoy, after all_.

Scorpius hung his head and pretended not to hear.

They didn't stop until reaching the newly renovated entrance to the headmaster's office: a stone phoenix, wings spread to bar the way. Robards was just about to voice the password when he glanced down at his pupil and decided against it.

"What?"

The professor glowered. "I'm not so sure if you need to know the password right now."

"You certain about that?" a voice called from the end of the corridor, echoing off the high ceilings. They turned to see Headmaster Grey striding down the hall, Grecian cloak flooding around him, his gray hair swept up into his usual honey-bee-stinger style.

Robards objected in his own defense. "Professor – you don't know what he's done -"

"Oh, I know," Grey nodded solemnly. "The portraits are not known for their discretion. And I believe that I am in charge of who does or doesn't have access to my office."

Bitter at his headmaster's lack of vengeance, Robards backed away. "Right."  
"I'd like to speak with the boy."  
He made no move.

"_Alone_, Robards."

The professor blinked, once, twice, and rushed off in an upset rage. Grey turned to Scorpius. "Now, Malfoy. Off we go." He spoke the password ("Aloha"), and without further discussion they boarded the revolving staircase, finally emerging at his office.

Grey's office was the ultimate showcase of the globe: Persian rugs lined the stone floor, the walls were bedecked with Japanese scrolls and old Roman paintings. An Asian crystal ball hung suspended above his desk, revolving, slowly, sending flashes of color throughout the office: blue, green, turquoise, blood red, tangerine, purple. Scorpius barely had time to admire the décor before one of the portraits spoke to him. A thin, beady-eyed man with a hooked nose glared from his portrait on the wall behind Grey's armchair.

"Ah. And here's Draco's boy at last."

Scorpius frowned, surprised. "How do you know me?" The question really was, How do I know you? The man looked incredibly familiar.

The man rolled his eyes. "Don't recognize me? Good god, don't you ever read your history books?"

Grey sighed; he obviously was not on the best of terms with this particular painting. "That is -"

"- Professor Severus Snape, 'nice' to meet you," he interrupted in a lazy drawl. "He looks just like his father. Pureblood to the bone marrow." With a pause, he seemed to look closer at him. "And yet there's something . . . very . . . different."

Scorpius waved the observation away, deeming it unimportant. "You knew my father?"

He scoffed. "Knew him? Saved his hide countless times, more like. Pathetic, frightened little boy, always choosing sides, never deciding; valueless brat, in my opinion."

"My father was not pathetic," Scorpius snapped instantly, instincts kicking in.

Something of a grin curled across Professor Snape's mouth. "Like I said, Grey: Malfoy to the marrow."

Grey sat down. "Be that as it may, Snape, we have far more important matters to attend to."

The portrait appeared very miffed at this, and slunk further into his chair.

The Headmaster gestured for Scorpius to take a seat as he slid an ancient book across the tabletop.

Scorpius took it gingerly in his hands; the book must have been centuries old. It was written in a foreign calligraphy, with a ying-yang painted on the front, colors cracking.

Grey tilted his head towards the book. "Tell me something, Malfoy. What do you think is the opposite of, say, _love_?"

"What are you trying to get at?"

He shrugged. "I'm not _trying_ to get at anything, boy. Please answer."  
He didn't have to think about it. "Well, then, hatred, of course."

At the following pause, Scorpius knew he had said something wrong. "That book you are holding is written by the most famed Chinese wizard philosopher of his time: Xian Zhang."

Scorpius flipped through the tattered pages. "It's in Chinese."

Behind him, Severus Snape sniffed in disapproval. "Oh, very good, Malfoy; brilliant, this one."

Grey ignored him, taking the book back and reading from a passage. "'The two separate forces of ying and yang stem from the same source of energy; the same is true in hatred and love; thus, those which we assume to be opposites are actually born of the same force, brothers of fate and fortune.'" Grey shut the book again. "What he's saying, Scorpius, is that if you love someone, you can think only of them; if you hate someone, they are always on you mind. You are concentrating the same energy in both emotions. Xian goes on to say that the opposite of love is, in actuality, ignorance. What do you make of this?"

Scorpius knew what Grey thought, and he didn't want to hear it. "I don't hate Weasley, if that's what you're saying."

He shook his head. "I'm not _saying_ anything. What I am asking is for you to think on it."

"Think" on it? No punishment? No expulsion? He couldn't believe it.

He walked out of the office that day no less perplexed that he had been the day before, and in addition, his spirit was weighed by this grim knowledge.

If Professor Grey was right, truly right, then Scorpius Orion Malfoy was, in every single way possible, completely and absolutely doomed.

A/N: HUGE thanks to: Hondagirl, Miriamimus, AmbrosiusSchuyler, Lilyscorpius, Mauraudergirl02, 15stars, Maria, and Lagirl266. Love the reviews; keep em coming ;)


	9. Chapter 8: Strangers

A/N: An enormous "thank-you" is now in store for all those dedicated to continue reading after my long lack-of-update. So THANK YOU! Your continued reading is deeply, deeply appreciated. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be too far off.

**Chapter 8**

**Strangers**

Quicker than she thought it would September morphed into October; late summer became fall; light homework loads grew into impossibly heavy ones; stress levels heightened as many began to wish for Christmas; and the rain poured on and on.

It was their first match of the season: Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor. Drops pelted the players as they flew – zigzagging, swooping, circling. Somewhere below Rose, Owen caught the quaffle; he was calling her name, but the wind carried his instructions away.

"What?" she cried, trying to free herself as James guarded her. "James – _stop_ _shoving_ – I can't hear you, Owen!"

The crowd, a sea of gold, bronze, blue and red, rippled as they discussed the match. James refused to lay off.

"James! Just give me a chance!"

"You think this is just some game?" he asked her, raising his voice against the rain. "We're not playing at some Weasley dinner, Rose! Let me do my job!"

Infuriated, she took him by surprise and swooped into a death drop below him, regaining flight at the other end of the field where Owen could conveniently, at last, pass her the quaffle. A goal was very nearly attainable at this point; Gryffindor's Keeper, Wronkowski, was a complete idiot; at the moment he was catcalling a few Hufflepuff girls in the audience, unaware that she was about to make a goal.

Rose closed one eye as she drew her arm back, aimed, and tossed the quaffle.

It would've been a perfect shot, had something, someone, not knocked into her harshly; the quaffle flew from her fingertips and she was launched from her broom seat, remaining above the ground only by grasping her broom handle.

"_Jame_s!"

"What can I say?" he called to her as he obtained the ball. "Gotta win the match! There're talent scouts in the stands!"

Still enraged by her spoiled shot, Rose swung easily back onto her broom. "I hate you . . ."  
No one in the audience dared boo James; they loved him, worshipped his every move on the pitch. And he ate it up, the pompous-headed git. He flew circles around the goalposts after scoring, he struck up the "Potter Chant" when he won. Rose couldn't stand it. Sometimes, after one of his long-winded gloats, she wished, really wished, that James did not have his talent so she could be that family Quidditch star whom everyone adored.

But that would never happen.

She flew up to David's level above them, wind rushing through her hair. "You see anything yet?"  
He just shook his head as he scanned the pitch.

"Nothing? Not even a glint of gold?"  
Another head shake.

She sighed. "You can tell I'm desperate."

A nod.

"I just hate it when James gets like this; it's impossible to -"

A flash of purple and orange passed by her. Tabs. "Quit your bickering, Weasley, and get in the game!"

It was a bloodbath; the Ravenclaws bled blue on the pitch that day. They walked out of the arena defeated, broomsticks over their shoulders, heads drooping as the gray skies waged war above them. Rose found herself searching Ravenclaw Tower's window for a face, one that longed to be included no matter how much he protested against it. There was no one.

Craig Donovan, Keeper, and Tabs extracted a carton of butterbeer from their secret stash beneath the Rowena Ravenclaw statue anyway; the dispirited Team sat around the crackling fire, sipping from their mugs, cheering each other up. The rest of the students had gone off to bed by now, throats sore from cheering and arms exhausted from waving signs and flags.

Tabs was sewing up her ripped pair of striped socks with her wand, seams binding themselves together magically. "That James Potter is pure evil, I tell you."

"He's probably wearing a crown right now and forcing First Years to bow to him," Tristan muttered, taking a swig of butterbeer.

Rose knew James; it wasn't unlike him. Still, she laughed at the image. Owen glanced up sharply at that laugh. "Did you talk to him like I told you to, Weasley?" he demanded. He set his mug aside; it was the closest he had ever come to sulking. And Owen Spinnet didn't sulk.

She threw her hands in the air, frustrated. "All the time. I was practically on my knees begging him to take pity on his poor, unfortunate little cousin. But you saw him take away my goal. He shows no mercy."

Tabs looked up from her wandwork. "You should've actually gotten down on your knees. Might've worked."  
"Quit being irrational," grumbled Owen from his armchair.

The colorful-haired Chaser turned on him. "Maybe you should quit being _rational_, Spinnet, because it's losing us a hell of a lot of matches, both this year and last." Ah, last year; they all remembered how Owen had tried overriding their past captain's directions, constantly desperate to control what was going on. It had cost them the cup. They had all been surprised when he'd been nominated by Professor Grey. Owen Spinnet lived and breathed Quidditch, and yet, he was not a leader.

The weight on the other side of Rose's couch disappeared as David got soundlessly to his feet, off to bed. He met each player's gaze as if asking them to follow suit before heading up the staircase.

The new Keeper, Craig, watched him retreat. "Hate the way he doesn't say anything. How'm I s'pposed to know what he wants?"

Rose's mouth dropped open. She had never heard anyone insult David. Never. "Hey," she snapped, instantly at his defense, "You know _nothing_ about David. Leave him alone and go work on that Remedial Potions of yours, flobberworm."

Tired and grumpy, Owen chastised them both and sent everyone off to bed, ever the nanny of the team. Every one of them complied; they knew their only chance of shaping up was to get, at the least, some rest.

Charms the next morning did nothing to heighten her spirits; she was paired with, as always, the scorpion; the old bird Professor Goshawk just loved keeping old partners together throughout the years. "A building tool of friendship" was her saying. Not really.

Scorpius was paging through his Charms textbook when she sat down beside him. "Morning," she greeted, mainly because she knew he wouldn't answer.

As of late, Scorpius Malfoy had been ignoring her completely. He didn't comment behind her back. He didn't sit near her during meals. He didn't look at her during class. Today, he was careful to keep a continual wall of space between them as they worked through the problems in Charms.

Rose read the instructions from the board and read the passage out of Scropius' book. "Aquamenti . . . that'll be fun."

He pulled out his wand and practiced the patterns from the text diagrams, saying nothing.

"You think we'll have homework tonight?"

Not a word.

"Aquamenti's supposed to be an easy spell, after all; I doubt we'll need extra practice."

Silent as the grave.

Rose slammed her own wand down on the desk. "Alright, scorpion, I haven't heard a _word_ out of you in weeks. What's your problem?"

At this, he looked at her, at last, but that was it; pursing his lips he went back to reading the text on the spell. This exasperated her to no end. "So you're giving me the silent treatment now? Is that it? You think that'll get to me?"

After speaking she could've sworn she saw the smallest of smirks playing across his pale features. "I'm _trying_ to be ignorant."

Would she be sent to Azkaban if she strangled him right then and there?

Rose Weasley wisely skipped out of Charms the following day for mock Quidditch with Hugo and James.

"Can't stand the little bugger anymore, eh?" James taunted as he flew circles around her. He flew circles around everyone. "So now you're risking your grades for _him_?"

Hugo swooped past, his ruddy complexion reddening even more in jealousy. "I doubt it. Rose can pass any class she wants to."

It was true. Though she dreaded class, was too lazy to finish her homework, and rarely studied for exams, Rose Weasley somehow retained her status at the top of the class every year. It annoyed her younger brother to no extent; he, on the other hand, found it impossible _not_ to study.

Arms dangling, showing off, James soared in fast rotations using his favorite "look-ma-no-hands" maneuver. "I bet I could get Roxanne to slip a little something into his glass tonight at dinner, if you want me to."

The cool autumn breeze was soothing in its strange warning-of-winter way. "No," she sighed. "I can deal with it." Although she had no idea _how_.

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year was met with excited whoops and yells as the Hogwarts students headed off the grounds for the first time in so many months; the cold bit at their cheeks as they shrunk into their jackets; the early-morning dew clung, frozen, to the grass as hundreds of student feet trampled through. Rose couldn't help her grin despite the time of day.

Beside her Caitlin yawned loudly, irritating a few Slytherins to their right. "So what's on the agenda?"  
"Dunno. David?"

He shrugged to let them know he had no preference.

Caitlin tacked off their hopeful destinations, one by one, on her fingers. "Zonko's, Honeyduke's, Weasleys', maybe Three Broomsticks for lunch?"

By the time the bell tower in the village green chimed out noon, they were already exhausted from dragging their feet along the frozen cobblestones, their freedom worn by now from a completely full morning. They had been sidetracked at Weasleys' for nearly two hours by Fred and Roxanne ("Come on, we helped our dad make it; it'll only take two seconds"), were thrown into a long-winded argument with the ever-impossible Miles Bletchely at Zonko's, and were lectured thoroughly by Melanie Macmillan for enchanting the crows outside the Hog's Head to stand on one leg. She was not the least bit amused when Rose made them dance a jig. All in all, they had never been more relieved to find an empty table in the near to bursting Three Broomsticks.

The door opened as the bells above it jangled; a gust of wind blew towards their corner table.

Caitlin sighed, annoyed. "Guess who's coming?"

Rose turned; Albus was making his way casually to a group of Gryffindors nearest the bar; nevertheless, his eyes constantly darted in their direction at different intervals. Rose's reaction was not unlike Caitlin's; he had been following them around Hogsmeade all morning, waiting outside of shops, standing at street corners, occasionally bumping into them when he thought they didn't suspect him. "Doesn't he have his own friends?" she almost snapped, her tone tried by this time.

Caitlin merely shrugged. "He just worries about you, that's all."

Across from them, David raised his eyes and spoke. A rare occurrence indeed. "He wants to make sure you stay away from Malfoy."

She gave him a sharp glance. "You mean, make sure that Malfoy stays away from me, right?"

He looked at her for a long, long time; his gaze seemed to ask her how she could be so stupid. "No, Rose. I meant what I said."

"What?" The chatter of the students mixing with the grumbles of the locals seemed to grow more and more distant as she tried to understand. David looked to Caitlin for help.

She grimaced. "Rose . . ." Feeling as though she was betraying her friend in some way, she ran a hand through her light hair nervously. "You may not like it, but you tend to go . . ."

". . . Looking for trouble," a voice finished behind her. They all turned their heads; Albus, of course. He looked down on her grimly. "Like your dad, Rosie. Like mine."

She set her glass down with a thud. "You were _listening_?"

Caitlin, still hesitant about her previous point against Rose, was slower than usual to defend her best friend. But she did, nonetheless. "Yeah, if the creeping around wasn't enough, Potter, _you_ have to go eavesdropping. That's just not classy."

Al raised a dark eyebrow. "Unfortunately for you, 'classy' isn't what I'm concerned about right now." His gaze turned on his cousin. "Rose, you know better than to go after Scorpius like you do."

She locked his stare with her own; Al had always been one of her closest friends. When they were kids, she would make the messes and he would clean them up with his readily available lies and excuses, the dynamic team of Diagon Alley. Where Al's thoughts ended, Rose's began. And then they entered Hogwarts. Al became the classic Gryffindor do-gooder along with her little brother while she became a Ravenclaw slacker, getting by on wit and talent alone. They became different people. And sometimes Rose didn't ever want to realize that they always had been.

In the here and now, Albus refused to quit. "You go after him to fight with him, you curse him to see him try to curse you . . . you're mad, you two, and honestly? We're all sick of it."

Beside her, David nodded. She could have killed him.

Needless to say, lunch did not go well.

Rose, yearning to escape from what she thought to be ill-suited advise, ducked into the bathroom just before the others ordered a second round of butterbeer. Her head was buzzing with words she didn't want to hear. The bathroom sink was cool against her forehead as she tried not to think; there were Zonko's products littering the floor, candy shop wrappings were stuck to the faucet, and there were loud voices coming in through the cracked window from the alley outside. Curious despite her current anger, she slid through the back door to take a look.

A group of Slytherins, the one they had walked with on their way out of Hogwarts, were gathered around the opposite brick wall sniggering amongst themselves; the shortest of the gang was waving his wand slowly in the air, engraving something into the worn brick. Rose didn't have time to try to understand what it was for at that moment there came a shout from the alley's opening: "I've got him!"

The Slytherins raised their heads, instantly rejoicing; another Slytherin was striding towards them from down the alley, dragging an elderly man by the collar. Rose recognized him instantly: he was the corner-shop watchmaker; he was old, his health was ailing, he was opinionless, and he just happened to be a muggle-born. The Slytherins laughed as he stumbled to the ground after his captor released him.

"Get up, old fool," the short one snickered, brandishing his wand.

"Can he even do magic?" another sneered.

They formed a sort of semi-circle around him, tall shadows playing across the cobblestones above the old man. He refused to look at them all; perhaps he thought it would save him.

Rose couldn't stand it. She never could let these things go. "Oy!" she called harshly. "What is this?"

All seven of them looked up sharply, previously unaware of her existence. When he saw her, the short Slytherin smiled in a strange way – like a hunter watching a creature of lesser value. "Bad break, boys; it's a Weasley."  
They all booed and hissed as they caught sight of her.

She searched her pockets for her wand; it failed to brush her fingertips. Where could it be? "You'd better leave him alone."

Their leader's grin refused to fade. "You shouldn't be talking; you're a blood traitor, you're worse than _him_."

This attitude was . . . old-fashioned, practically unheard of since the Second War. Who did he think he was? "Been listening too much to Daddy Death Eater, eh?" Rose mocked, loudly, hopelessly brave despite the continued absence of her wand.

Still, the leader kept that superior little smile. He gestured for the other Slytherins to back away from the watchmaker as he heaved on the ground. He pocketed his wand casually to make it clear he did not find her threatening. "Tell your uncle Potter we say hello," he said, and with that, he and the others disappeared with seven pairs of loud _pops_.

Rose was left breathless. They had just Apparated; they weren't _allowed_ to Apparate, not at their age.

The image they had burned into the stone remained; she squinted to take a closer look. It appeared to take the shape of a backwards S, a foreign swirl against the building, but it was much too tall to be an S. She vowed to take a trip to the library in search of some information on this obscure symbol.

The watchmaker was still breathing heavily as she struggled to help him up. He tried to give her his gratitude but his coughing interfered.

_Tell your uncle Potter we say hello._

The question was, who was "we?"


	10. Chapter 9: I Get By With A Little Help

A/N: Ahhh . . . I don't even want to know how long it's been since I've updated this little story. Why I'm Updating Now: t's summer, I don't have school, and I'm not getting anything done with my own origial fic's. Why not write a bit of Potter?

Anyway, I do hope at least some of you catch this new chapter and maybe even read it :) If you do, my deepest apologies for the lack of updatit-y (yes, that is now a word).

**Chapter 9**

**I Get By With a Little Help . . . From My Enemies**

When Hogwarts received its first snow of the school year Scorpius was reading beside the dying embers of the Ravenclaw fireplace. It was six in the morning, freezing cold, and was not by any means an unusual occurrence in his schedule. What _was_, however, unusual was the presence of Rose Weasley making her way past the windows as newborn snowflakes flickered in the sunrise _without_ a murderous look on her face.

The decision was made for him by his determination to prove Professor Grey wrong: Ignore her. _You don't hate her, you don't hate her, you don't hate her_, he told himself, hoping this wasn't edging on desperation.

She sat in the armchair furthest from him, relaxing against the blue fabric and yawning. Weasley was not a morning person, that much he had learned during their first five years at Hogwarts. Her eyelids drooped in their first class and at breakfast she frequently dropped her wand into her cereal bowl (where the milk was quick to turn blue). Today, however, there was something different edging around her irises, something he had not seen of her often before: determination.

Rose Weasley? Determined? Enthused, yes, but determination had always been a bit of an overachievement on her part.

So the teachers hadn't been joking about slipping something into her drink.

She tipped her head to the side, regarding him without caution. "So," she began, "Since I see you're not about to start the conversation, I will. I need your help."  
Scorpius scoffed visibly. He couldn't help it.

Rose leered in response. "Aha. So you _can_ hear me."

"To an extent," he muttered irritably, forcing his gaze away from her and to the pitifully small snowflakes outside the window. Unwillingly his ears tuned in to what she was about to say; he was curious despite all else.

The snippy Weasley continued to talk at him, gesturing wildly with her hands as she spoke, much as she was prone to do when particularly frustrated. "It must come to no surprise to you that you're Ravenclaw's resident library rat."

Nice alliteration, he thought with a smirk.

"You sleep between the shelves, eat lunch against the books, and stroll into the Restricted Section more than any of the other students," she continued, eyebrows knitting tightly together. Apparently this was difficult for her to say. "You spend more time there than your own dormitory. And I'm thinking that this is somewhat helpful. To me. Not . . . admirable, just . . . helpful."

"To you?" he interjected without thinking. _Be ignorant, be completely ignorant_.

"Yes, to me," Rose snapped. "Is that a problem? Because if it is I could just mention to Professor Robards I think I'm suffering long-term effects from your lovely little _crucio_ spaz and he'll have you out of Hogwarts in no time."

Scorpius cringed. "No need for the blackmail, Weasel. I didn't say I wouldn't do it."

She, in response, rolled her eyes and looked into the fire's dying embers. "Excuse me for being defensive. You haven't exactly been very accommodating in the past, have you?"

"Have _you_?"  
He watched as she seemed to recount on all the times she had prided herself on humiliating him throughout the years. The week-long warts when they were twelve, the hidden puking pastels in his pumpkin juice the year after, and the speak-aloud daydream charm during their O.W.L.'s. It all appeared to be coming back to her, and she smiled impishly at the memories. "D'you remember when - "

"Yes, I remember," he growled before she could go on. "And as you must know, you haven't exactly been a portrait of innocence throughout our . . . acquaintanceship." Rivalry was too strong a word, and it was anything but friendship.

Rose flung her legs over the arm of her chair. "Yes, well, I don't care. What I do care about, however, is whether or not you can help me find something."

He hated the fact that his eyebrows raised unintentionally out of interest.

With an exasperated sigh at her situation she pulled a scrawled drawing out of her robe pocket. Scorpius tried his best to get a better look without leaning in. It appeared to be some form of the letter "S," with a line running through it, ending at the bottom with a swirl. It was completely foreign to him. He shrugged. "And you need me because . . .?"

She crumpled the parchment in her hand to illustrate her point. "I need to crack this symbol, this code. And you need you to find me a book."

Scorpius realized, with intense shame, that his literary curiosity couldn't resist the temptation. Stupid bloody books.

Early morning light shone bright through the library windows as they browsed the Magical Emblems and Symbols aisle. The place was devoid of students; it was the Sunday after the Slytherin-Gryffindor match; naturally, most were still sleeping the morning away in their dormitories.

Already Rose was beginning to tug out her hair in aggravation as they searched. "I've been looking for weeks, _weeks_, and I haven't found anything."

Scorpius tried to ignore her attitude as he flipped through the pages of a particularly large volume. It was filled to the brim with spell abbreviations, hieroglyphics written by wizards centuries before, and the written forms of parseltongue. "Well, how have you been looking?"

"What do you mean, 'how have I been looking?'" she asked, ripping another book from its shelf.

He cringed. Again. "In order to find something you need to know how to look for it." Rose scanned her book and pulled another towards her, sickeningly disrespectful to the words on the page. Without quite knowing, Scorpius contemplated her silently; Rose Weasley was good – excellent, in fact – at finding answers, but she never took the time to look for them.

She seethed quietly. "I couldn't tell you _how_ I've been looking for them, anyways. I peek through the index, maybe, and -"

"The index?" He shook his head. "Clearly you're insane."

"And clearly you're a pompous, idiotic git."

Scorpius took the book from her and opened to the beginning; a page of runes unfolded before them. "You won't find anything by using the index. It tells you what the publisher wants you to find, not what you want. If this symbol is so obscure, it won't be in the index." He couldn't help snorting. "My god, 'top of our year,' what were they thinking?"

They spent the brunt of their morning among the books in the Magical Emblems section; the ever-ancient Madame Pince kept shuffling past to check on them, instantly suspicious of an alliance between a Malfoy and a Weasley, as anyone who remembered their parents (and, rest assured, everyone did) would be.

"So," Rose began behind him, a somewhat whining tone to her voice, "If you lock yourself up in here all the time, why don't _you_ get top marks? Hm?"

Scorpius tore himself from the pages of _The Dark Mark: Its Symbolism to Voldemort and His Followers_ and put it aside, knowing there was nothing to find in the thick book. "Classes are just . . . classes." Whereas words were . . . words. "I study, I try, I memorize spells, and _sometimes_ I fail. So does everyone. Except you." He said it with distaste.

"Jealous much?" she replied snidely, nose peeking above the thin booklet she was holding.

"Of you? Right."

Their bitter banter was followed by a long silence as they paged through their own texts. It was a silence tinged with, surprisingly, awkwardness, confusing Scorpius even more. If he was completely ignorant around her, then why would their sudden lapse of conversation be deemed awkward? Shaking his head to dislodge these thoughts he was about to say something when a small, freckled head popped around the corner. Ah. A Weasley. He could've been Rose's cousin, he could've been Rose's brother, Scorpius didn't know. It was impossible to keep the Weasley tribe straight.

"Hey, Owen Spinnet needs you," the freckled face spoke. He squinted his eyes at Scorpius, nonverbally voicing his concerns: What are you doing here with her?

Rose barely glanced up. "What for, Hugo."

"Surprise Quidditch practice. Uh, surprise."

"Ahh!" Obviously annoyed, she slammed the book back into its shelf. Scorpius grimaced. "I _hate_ it when he does this! Does he ever bother to think that, though he doesn't have a life, some of us do?" In a rush, she brushed past Scorpius a little too quickly, knocking his book into his face. He rubbed his nose. Just wonderful.

"Sorry," she blurted out.

And with that Rose and Hugo Weasley were gone, weaving through the complicated shelves of books on their way to the pitch. Scorpius stared after them, not bothering to go back to his book. "Sorry?" He didn't think they had ever exchanged such a phrase, such a word, before in their lives. At least not to each other. He shuddered. Indifference, indifference, he repeated to himself, wanting desperately to make it completely true.

It was not only his book session with the Weasley girl that made this particular Sunday unique for Scorpius. It happened just after lunch; he'd retired to the Transfiguration courtyard, knowing the library would be completely filled with students finally awake and hurriedly finishing homework due the following day. The ground was frozen, and a gentle icy mist seemed to settle over the stiff, frost-tipped grass. He was just beginning the most promising book from the library concerning the symbol he'd copied onto a spare piece of parchment when _they_ rounded the corner.

Two Slytherins, by the looks of it. They were tall and dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark shadows surrounding them. Scorpius Malfoy had a no-policy-policy when it came to Slytherins. Coming from pure Slytherin ancestry, Scorpius was left alone by the Slytherins, respected even. He had realized by now, painfully, that none of the Ravenclaws could ever give him that same type of respect. Anyway, Scorpius always kept cool around them, terrified that one of them would leak to his father what House he was really in.

"Alright, Malfoy?" the tall one (who was he kidding? They were both towering) asked him, peering at his book.

Scorpius just nodded. "Alright."

The other one, a Zabbini, leaned his foot against the stone bench. "How's your father doing?"

How was his father doing? How should he know? And why should he care? He gave Zabbini a shrug. "Well, I suppose." He didn't ask him why; all he wanted was silence from these two tall goons. Maybe they'd leave if they found him too boring for their taste. However, though his eyes wandered back to the page, they kept badgering.

The first one sat down beside him. "I've heard some things about your mother. Up for a promotion at the office, eh? My dad works with her."

Moving up from a secretary? Now, that's hard to do, he thought sarcastically to himself. "Really. I hadn't heard."

Zabbini laughed, a snide, dark chuckle. "You know what _I_ heard? Everyone's saying that you crucioed the living hell out of the Weasley girl."

Scorpius wouldn't exactly call it that. It was more of a mind slip than anything. However, he didn't dare forget what company he was in, and decided to let it go for the moment. "Hey, she bothers me," he replied, keeping his gaze trained specifically on his book, though he didn't quite see it. Somehow Rose's eyes flashed before him: Wide, surprised, pained, and something like disappointment. He rubbed his forehead, not wanting to think about that, not now.

Zabbini was still talking, practically applauding him. "None of us really expected it from you, you know. It was just so . . . different, so revolutionary, so rebellious."

Scorpius looked at him finally. "Rebellious? Against what?"

"Against _her_ type," the other chimed in.

"And what's her type?" asked Scorpius, glancing from one Slytherin to the other. They just laughed in reply, roaring, raucous laughter. Oh, so he had made a joke now, had he? The Slytherins always had their little personal mottos, phrases, even words, isolating them, if only slightly, from the rest of the Houses. They held a different perspective in life: Only the fittest survive. Scorpius wasn't sure he could live with that outlook; he wasn't exactly the "fittest" in anything.

The Slytherin touched the piece of parchment sticking out of Scorpius' book, the one with the symbol scrawled across it; he had copied it in a rush, seeing as Rose had gotten impatient of holding it for him. Both Slytherins looked at each other. They exchanged a look he couldn't read.

"You know what this means?" Zabbini asked him, not harshly, regarding the symbol.

Scorpius didn't know what to say. "Er . . . not . . . entirely."

A nod from the other. It was a knowing nod, filled with understanding he didn't get in Ravenclaw Tower. "Tell me something, Malfoy."

He wasn't sure he wanted to "tell him something," but he gave the Slytherin his rapt attention anyway. Maybe, just maybe, this was the road to the mysterious symbol and he could wash his hands of this strange alliance with Rose Weasley.

"You have plans for the next Hogsmeade weekend?" he asked.

Scorpius pretended to think about it. Of course he didn't have plans, he never had plans. "Not yet, anyway," he replied, tone neutral.

A cold grin slid across Zabbini's sharp features. "Tell you what. A few of us are meeting at the Hog's Head then; we'd like you to come, even if you just show up for a little while. We'd appreciate your . . . enlightenment."

Though Scorpius gave them a look they both stood, not ones for small talk, and made their exit with a few "see you's" and "later's." He watched them leave, even further confused. A few Slytherins, inviting him? They had had no contact outside of the usual classroom activities. Something, he knew, was afoot. And it wasn't enlightenment they wanted from him, he knew: It was enlightenment they would give to him.

A/N: Kudos to anyone who knows the root of this chapter's title. Not that it's a hard one to guess.


	11. Chapter 10: Matches

A/N: Finally, an update that's relatively on time. Anyway, I'd like to thank you guys for keeping up, and please enjoy :)

**Chapter 10**

**Matches**

"Slytherin."

"Slytherin."

"Ravenclaw."

"Slytherin."

"Ravenclaw."

"Ooo, Ravenclaw."

Owen swiveled on the stands to give them both a killer glare. "Why don't you two think about actually practicing as opposed to counting on fifty-fifty odds?"

Tabs and Rose had been in the process of flipping a galleon to determine that week's match's winner as they waited for the Gryffindors to finish practice so they could get one last chance on the pitch before Saturday. Rose just grinned, flipping the coin once more. "But we're working on best out of one hundred. _Ravenclaw_."

The captain was close to pulling out clumps of his own hair. "Couldn't you content yourselves with something simpler? Say, best out of, I don't know, five?"

"But what's the fun in that?" replied Tabs from her cross-legged perch on the weather-worn wood of the pitch stands. "Honestly, you'll never win with that attitude, Spinnet. _Slytherin_. Damn."

Owen grimaced – actually grimaced – as he looked across the grounds, irritated beyond all rationality with his fellow Chasers. However, while his teammates continued their game of luck, his eyes narrowed, seeing something far out across the path. "Hey, if it isn't Ravenclaw's worst flier coming our way now."

Rose followed his gaze to find Scorpius making his way grudgingly towards the pitch, hands in his robe's pockets, feet treading across the frozen ground. All three were relieved at the absence of a broom on his shoulder. Tabs, being the witch she was, couldn't resist muttering a "Here comes trouble" all the same. Above them, as they watched the sullen Malfoy, the Gryffindors swooped in and out of the hoops jubilantly, James in the lead. Rose wondered if he could see Scorpius from up there, wondered if he'd try to stop him as Albus had tried to stop her. Not that it mattered. Why should she care if her older cousin decided to chase Malfoy away? Her deeply hidden self-betrayal, however, was this: Things really were so much more fun with the challenge of Scorpius around.

"Here to try out for the team?" Tabs taunted soon as he stepped within hearing distance. Her tone was daunting; there was no joke in her voice. This was unusual for Tabs, the Ravenclaw who could find amusement in even the dullest Potions essay. Rose knew it was out of support for her, but still, she found it unnerving.

Scorpius dug his hands further into his pockets against the late-November chill. He didn't reply; perhaps he didn't trust himself to. Rose, feeling suddenly strangely heroic (and oddly sympathetic), pulled him out of the lion's den with one word. "Hey."

Both Tabs and Owen turned their heads to stare at her. Did they detect a note of civility in her voice? Civility, from Rose Weasley to Scorpius Malfoy? Impossible. Something was wrong. Something was deathly wrong. Rose, watching her enemy approach them, couldn't help thinking the same thing.

And so, as the Gryffindors soared above them, James calling off orders, and the remainder of the Ravenclaw team changed into their practice robes, Scorpius recounted his meeting with the two Slytherins to her. Some of it seemed to make sense. Some of it didn't.

"They _knew_ this symbol," he finished, holding up his scrap of parchment with the ever-strange "S" shape. "They knew it, Weasley. How exactly did you run into this?"

Rose was surprised just how interested he was in her little mystery now, whereas before all he cared for was chastising her researching skills. "It's really not that important," she sighed. "What happened was this, plain and simple: I ran into a few Slytherins in Hogsmeade trying to torture one of the residents there, a wizard. They carved this symbol into the wall."

Scorpius nodded, taking in her information. "And what was so different about the wizard? Why torment him at all?"

"How should I know?" she said, annoyed now. "I can't exactly read Slytherin minds."

He was quiet. Turning away from her, he looked up at the practicing players as they flew intricate patterns into the sky. There was something unnerving in his posture, something terribly strange and almost threatening. She watched him, the loner, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring out at nothing. Had he always been this way? Quietly, compliantly alone?

Finally, he spoke. "I can."

She scoffed. "What, Malfoy, read minds?"

When he didn't respond, she slapped the bench in disbelief. "My god, you can't be serious!"

Still, he wouldn't look at her. "I mean, I _sort_ _of_ can. I'm not very good at it, and I never use it. Never. I can't even do it nonverbally. My father taught it to me a few summers back. It's something called Legilimency. "

Rose could not believe it. Even in the magical world mind-reading wasn't exactly commonplace. All thoughts of the Slytherins and the strange symbol flew from her thoughts as she took in the quiet reader before her. Scorpius Malfoy, a Legilimens? "Well, why don't you use it? I know if I could read minds, I'd read everyone's; professors, friends, family, wouldn't even matter who."

Scorpius shifted on the bench, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. "It's not really like reading someone's exact thoughts. It's more like . . . seeing flashes of images. It takes a great, _great_ amount of concentration."

"Then use it on me," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and preparing a mental image. She had to see this in motion. The cold wind whipped at her hair as she looked her not-presently-enemy in the eye. She had never met anyone with this interesting ability, this interesting skill. And finally, finally, he looked at her. They locked eyes. And before she could ask him what she was thinking (a gleaming golden Quidditch Cup, in case you were wondering), he shook his head ashamedly.

"I . . . can't."

Exasperation settled into her stance. "Why not, Malfoy?" she snapped.

He continued to look at her, though she could tell he didn't want to. "Because . . . Think about it. Do you really want _me_ in _your_ mind?"

Being the leap-before-you-look sort of girl, Rose hadn't thought about that. Scorpius Malfoy, in her mind. Seeing the dark pieces of her life that no one else could receive glimpses of. Her occasional yet overpowering bitterness towards her parents, her uncertainty about her future, her desperate need to be heroic as so many of her relatives had been, and the self-disappointment that she wasn't a hero, never would be, and the knowledge that she was just a mediocre human being all around.

He was right.

She didn't want anyone, let alone Scorpius Malfoy, seeing those things.

Before Rose could open her mouth to say something, anything, Tabs was calling for her as the team emerged from the tents, brooms in hand. The Gryffindors on the pitch began their tired yet eager descent. She turned to Scorpius, an uncertain apology written across her face. She wasn't sure why. "Going to stay and watch?"

And in a matter of moments the old Malfoy, the one who hated her and didn't let her into his private life, had returned. "Watch what, a handful of wizards chasing little balls on flying cleaning supplies? Right."

Getting to her feet and grabbing her broom, she rolled her eyes in a sort of relief. "Fine then. Have it your way. Go back to your moldy books."

"Maybe I will," he grumbled.

They parted ways, both very uncertain of being civil to the other. However, as she jogged onto the pitch and looked back over her shoulder, she saw him smile behind his hand. Sort of. And she wondered, out of the blue, if things were changing.

Sort of.

"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, students and professors, Quidditch supporters and complete idiots alike - "

"_Jordan_!"

"Hey, it's true, sir. If there's anyone in the universe who is not at least the _smallest_ Quidditch fan, they've got to be - "

"_Jordan! Not. Now._" Spoke Professor Robards through obviously clenched teeth.

Rose laughed freely into the wind as the game began. With the sound of Professor Wood's whistle, the Quaffle was launched, sending the Chasers after it in a flash. Dark clouds obscured all sun from touching the pitch; though it was November, she could have sworn she heard thunder rumble in the distance.

"And so the match starts off with Zabini in possession of the Quaffle . . . oh, he's a mean-looking fellow today . . . aaaaand will anyone grab it? Anyone? Anyone out there? Oooh, yes, and he's ducked a nicely hit bludger by Ravenclaw Livie Conway and dropped the ball; good girl, Livie. Captain Owen Spinnet's got the Quaffle now, heading in the direction of the Slytherin hoops . . ."

Rose flew faster, spiraling around one of the bludgers and looping under a Slytherin. She reached the scoring area without trouble. "Spinnet, throw it here!" she called out to him, the wind snatching away her voice but surely loud enough for him to hear. Owen gave her a glance . . . but not the ball. Instead of tossing it to her obviously open arms, he decided to throw the Quaffle outside of the scoring area, attempting a shot from where he stood (or levitated, technically). It barely missed the hoop, pummeling down towards the ground. Retchska caught it, throwing it to Zabini again.

". . . and Ravenclaw misses. _What_ _the bloody hell was that, Spinnet_?!"

"Jordan! Stay calm!"

"Staying calm, sir, staying calm."

Rose voiced Lee Jordan's outrage once pulling up beside Owen. The rest of her team was just as angry. He couldn't try being the star of the team; this wasn't a solo game. Besides, he wasn't James Potter; he didn't have the talent. But, unfazed, Owen ignored her and called for David to keep an eye out for the snitch. David gave him a look that said, _What else would I be doing?_ but flew a bit higher above them nonetheless, eyes peeled for any sudden glint of gold.

Angry now, Rose dove for Zabini, smashing into his side in an attempt to dislodge the Quaffle from his arm. Sure, foul play wasn't necessary "allowed," but since when had the Slytherins played without it?

"Careful there," he growled, clutching the ball tighter. "I don't want you to get your filthy muggle blood on me."

Both sped up in an attempt to outrace the other. She hit him again. "Call me old-fashioned, but all blood's the same, you Dark-Eater."

"It's Death-Eater. And I'm not, you Weasel."

"Ha!" She laughed scornfully. "I wish death would eat you!" And with one final shove, the Quaffle tumbled from his grasp; she snatched it out of the air effortlessly, swooping straight up before he could try to catch her. He was fast, but Rose's lightness combined with her PotterBolt was, unfortunately for him, faster.

"Watch it!" cried Craig Donovan. She ducked just in time to miss a bad bludger heading her way.

". . . ah, and a brilliant cover by little Rose Weasley there," Lee's voice boomed across the stadium.

Rose, annoyed, shouted "I'm not little!" to him, just as she had done every other game over the course of her Hogwarts Quidditch career (though any probability he had of hearing her from the announcer's box was wiped away). Lee Jordan didn't like to see her as an adult; she would always be "Ron and Hermione's tiny little witch" to him. And he made sure to tell this to the entire school every Quidditch match. Lovely.

"Oh . . . oh, wait, Hogwarts . . . is that gold I see? Is that – _Damn it, David, it was right next to you!!_ Right, Professor, I know, keep calm . . . "

Owen called for a time-out, and David was (admittedly) deservedly chastised for not noticing the snitch when it was right under his nose. Though they were barely fifteen minutes into the game, the team was already exhausted by the cruelty of the bitter wind. Beaters Livie and Tristan were passing a flask of pumpkin juice around the team, cheeks rosy in the cold.

"Right . . ." sighed Owen, running a hand through his wind-mussed hair. "Tabs, I'm gonna need you to call on your little friend, eh?"

Taking a sip from the pumpkin juice, she gave him a devilish smile and tilted her head. "My little friend? I have no idea what you mean."

"I don't need the jokes now, Fiona, just do it!"

Scowling at the mention of her name, she ducked into the tent. Moments later a red-beaked and blue-wing-tipped falcon was soaring over the audience and settling on an open bench beside the grouped Slytherin team as they huddled. The Ravenclaws waited; Owen himself took a swig of the juice and helped patch up the sore calluses on Livie's hands, created by her bat when she'd hit her last bludger a bit too zealously. David played with the twigs in his broom, shame-faced.

Rose tried to comfort him, anything to get his chin up. "Hey. You're more observant that any of us, David. Don't let anyone get to you."

He just shrugged. "It wasn't 'any of us' that missed the Snitch."

Before she could respond, however, the falcon was flying triumphantly back towards their end, twirling in its jubilation. It dove behind the tent, and in moments, Tabs had reappeared within the tent flaps, dusting herself off.

"Alright," she said, gathering the team together. "They're relying completely on the Haileybury Hammers Strategy."

Owen instantly nodded in recognition. The Haileybury Hammers, a Canadian Quidditch team, had recently won the last Quidditch World Cup by a combination of Seeker distraction and aggressive Chaser defense; in the game, much to the audience's admiration (Rose herself had been there; the Weasleys had decided on a family reunion to take place in Romania at the World Cup), the Seeker, time and time again, pretended to spot the snitch at different intervals. At the same time, the Chasers, instead of actively seeking out the Quaffle, played defensively, acting almost as Keepers rather than the Chasers they were. That is, until the very last moment, in which the Haileybury Hammers Chasers snapped into action and scored multiple goals in a matter of minutes.

After a warning whistle from Wood, the Ravenclaws stood and mounted their brooms again. Owen handed out a few instructions, with a last, "Don't be fooled by those idiots; they're too stupid to handle the Haileybury Hammers Approach anyway" before they gained air once more.

"You ever feel guilty about cheating like this?" Tabs asked Rose as they accelerated over the pitch.

Rose thought about it. And she laughed. "Nope."  
Tabs smiled and shook her blue-dyed braids. "Good. Because neither do I."

They were off, Quidditch robes flapping in the breeze. David, above them, remained attentive for the snitch but didn't even bother looking towards the Slytherin seeker; he refused to be tricked. Rose looked back on her fellow Chasers. "So hey, Owen, when do we know when they choose to quit the defense and get offensive?"

Owen actually grinned as he circled her. A smile from Owen Spinnet during a Quidditch match was, well, nonexistent. "Oh, we'll know," he replied. "They're Slytherins; they're not exactly discreet."

And know they did.

"And what's this?" Lee Jordan boomed. "The Slytherins, ladies and gentlemen, working around lame defense for the entire game, are now on their brooms and heading towards the other side! Merlin, what a turn-around! But wait . . . the Ravenclaws are ready for it . . . Spinnet remains in possession with a magnificent twirl if I do say so myself – you're quite the ballerina, Owen – and he's in the Slytherin zone and . . . passing the Quaffle . . . little Weasley catches it, and . . . SCORES!"

Rose barely had time to celebrate Owen's gracious pass before the Ravenclaw end of the audience went up in blue cheers again. Below them, nearly toe-to-toe with the grassy pitch, David was clutching gold, tiny wings fluttering around his fingertips. The game was over, they had won for the first time that season, and the Holidays were coming up in a matter of weeks. The moment could not get any better.

Ravenclaw Tower was decorated festively for the win that night; the butterbeer was hauled out and passed around, not to be outdone by the dozens of different types of sweets smuggled in from Honeydukes (Laura Gilbert was the niece of the owner). Even the Dynamic Duo Melanie Macmillan and Alder Bryans cooled their engines for the night, pretending not to see the surprisingly large amount of butterbeer cartons somehow hidden within the common room. Rose was just about to join in yet another toast when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a figure making his way up the staircase to the boys' dormitory. Scorpius Malfoy, head hung and eyes drooping, knew he had no place among them. Rose bit her lip, silently hated herself, and went after him.

"Hey," she called, putting a hand on the stone staircase. Scorpius turned warily, hand on his wand. Rose suddenly felt terrible he had to feel this way, looking around every corner in case there was something waiting for him. A twinge of guilt hit her then when she realized that she was probably a small cause of that. Alright, she thought, a large cause of that. "You know . . . you don't have to leave like this."

"Like what?" he asked, giving her a nonlethal glare. "Like I'm exhausted and ready for bed?"

How could he not find the raucous noises of their celebration tempting? "Like no one wants you here."

Scorpius looked away quickly, but as he did, she thought she saw hurt in his eyes. "No one does." And so he left her on the stairwell, guilty and confused.

Rose's dreams were somehow pleasant that night. At least, they were at first. In her dreams, she was flying in the World Cup against Bulgaria, using the surprise-offensive-attack of the Haileybury Hammers. Suddenly, suddenly, the Seeker, her father (though he had always told them he'd been Keeper, not a Seeker) had caught the snitch and she was holding the World Cup. That was when she peered inside it; the gold expanse swallowed her until she saw a face. Malfoy. He was walking towards her, jaw clenched and expression disgusted.

'You're filth, you know that, Weasley,' he said to her, 'Complete and utter filth. My eyes burn just looking at you.'

And all she could say was 'Stop.'

'I can't believe I let you get the best of me all those years,' he was saying, coming closer, staring her down with his expression of loathing.

'Stop.'

'And what if I don't?'

'Stop.'

'. . . what if I don't . . .'

And he was kissing her, kissing her, kissing her, kissing her. His touch was filled with both hatred and care alike, gentle and rough. It didn't last long because Rose awoke with a silent scream lodged in her throat. Beads of terrified sweat soaked her hairline. Yet by the time she'd settled back down again and waded once more into sleep, the pillow was his neck and the blankets were his arms.

And she told herself she hated it.

A/N: Insight is, as always, greatly, greatly appreciated.


	12. Chapter 11: Scorpion's Downfall

**Chapter 11**

**The Scorpion's Downfall**

So Scorpius Malfoy hated Christmas. So what? Did that really garner him the nonappreciative glares he received after said onlookers learned this fact? (Actually, 'nonappreciative' was an understatement). So what if the sound of carols was ear-grating (especially at all hours of the night). So what if the thought of exchanging presents sickened him? So what if he hated the usual Christmas feasts? So what if the sounds of celebration filling the halls reminded him that he was, truly, alone?

At least there was Miles, he supposed, who was also not a big fan of the Yuletide. "Means nothing to me but Semester exams, man," he mumbled around his toast at breakfast. Above them, Peeves was busy filling in his own "special" lyrics to "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," overturning the garlands decorating the House tables and spilling eggnog goblets. They didn't have to look up to know where he was, though, due to the mischievously jingling bells strung around his bow tie. "I mean, come on. We finally get something of a break and they load us with more because of it. What _is_ that?"

Scorpius didn't answer, too busy cramming for their Defense Against the Dark Arts semester final that morning, not emerging from the sickening words of Rita Skeeter until he was sure he knew the names of all victims used by Voldemort for his horcruxes. He didn't bother studying for Potions; Decima wasn't one for tests, especially not exams. She had complained to Professor Grey on many an occasion that a carefully scheduled testing-of-knowledge was ridiculous; only by randomly surprising them with such a task was much more effective. Though Grey had turned the notion down several times, she had rebelled by writing an exam filled with nonsense questions: What is the weather today, what is your name, what class is this? That wasn't to say they weren't surprised with dozens of other random tests designed to "help" them. Scorpius scoffed. One more P and he wasn't sure how much "help" he could take.

"Merry Christmas," a terribly familiar voice sang as she sat down opposite him. Rose Weasley was in an especially chipper mood today.

"It's not Christmas yet," he mumbled, turning the page sullenly. "Now go away."

She took a sip from her orange juice, watching him. He could see feel her gaze as he attempted to sink back into Magical Defenses. "You know, you'll get nowhere with that attitude."

"Exactly." Why was she being so prying today, anyway? "I'm sorry, did you want something?"

Rose pursed her lips, glancing to either side of them in mock caution. The only one around in close vicinity was Miles. "Actually, I do. _We_ do, as a matter of fact. There's a prank landing just after the last exam, before everyone takes off for Holiday. I've been told to enlist the two of you. You're Ravenclaws, after all."

Miles' lip curled. "Told by who, one of your revolting relatives?"

He must have been looking for some type of reaction other than the one she gave him: Stealing the jam from his hand with a flick of her wand and a quickly whispered "wingardium leviosa" (She, along with half their year, still could not muster the complications of nonverbal spells). Miles slumped, defeated.

Bored but still slightly panicking about the Defense exam, Scorpius risked a glance over his book at the Weasley. My God, she practically glows, he thought. What was it about Christmas? What was it that drove people to walk around smiling idiotically, humming to themselves, absolutely eager to spread the good cheer? He shook his head, going back to Rose's idea. "Who's it against?"

She laughed. "You know those heaps of dung Peeves has been leaving in front of doors and claiming he's trying to make mistletoe?"

"Like hell I do!" exclaimed Miles, setting down his fork. So that was what the smell had been . . .

Scorpius, though he was generally on Miles' side, couldn't help a snicker. Hogwarts' occupants had been stepping in carefully-placed hippogriff dung for days now, begging the N.E.W.T. students for easy aroma-erasing charms. Unfortunately for everyone seated at the Ravenclaw table, Miles Bletchley wasn't a N.E.W.T. student in Charms.

"Anyway," continued Rose, wrinkling her nose at the source of the smell, "Do either of you know where Peeves sleeps?"

Miles looked incredulous. "Peeves sleeps? Can poltergeists do that?"

"Surprisingly, yes. But then again he causes so much destruction, he's bound to need a few minutes' shut eye every once and awhile. " She helped herself to the eggs, humming. Scorpius noted she wasn't bothering to study, though they had the same exams that day. "Anyway. I overheard my uncle George talking with Lee Jordan about their old Hogwarts days, and in this discussion, they mentioned their dear old friend Peeves. And you'll never guess where he cozies up for his naps."

Scorpius sighed. "I have a feeling you're about to tell us."

She ignored him. Not an unlikely reaction from her. "The Owlry. At the very top of the tower in the rafters, to be precise. Something about the owls warning him if someone unfriendly comes along."

By now, Scorpius' concern rubbing off, Miles had stolen the Dark Defenses book and was flipping through it distractedly. "Alright, so, what do you want to do? And why would we help?"

"I'm not saying I need your help, Bletchley. What I'm saying is that you two are welcome. We're trying to get all of Ravenclaw in on it so he doesn't targets specific individuals after this, you know how h is. But whatever you choose to do is fine by me. I really could care less."

He frowned, just as confused by her almost friendly gesture as Scorpius was. In the end Miles told her they'd think on it, keeping silent until she went away, assumably not to study. The moment she was gone, he turned on Scorpius. "What were you doing back there, Malfoy?!" he cried, furious. Scorpius was bewildered. "It's always me backing _you_ up while she verbally assaults us. But you just sat there!"

It was true, he had. Scorpius raised his hand in mock innocence. "I was studying. We have exams, if you can actually remember."

Miles pushed the book back to its owner, disgusted. "I mean, what's up with you and the Weasley anyway? You're acting like she hasn't been absolutely killing your reputation since day one, man. What is _with_ you?"

And now, he had no reputation left. Scorpius felt a little sick to his stomach. Maybe it was the exams, maybe it was the smell of dung wafting from Miles' shoes. He found he didn't have an answer to the question. Not that Miles needed one; he finished his breakfast and strode away, no doubt having something devious to get to.

Scorpius' day was filled with regretfully forgotten facts, frantic cramming, and terribly out of tune carols that haunted him down the hallways. They even emanated from Caitlin Goldstein's old radio in the Ravenclaw common room that night as he was trying to study beside the fire. Amid a hearty rendition of "Santa Clause is Coming to Town," Lee Jordan's voice emerged from the small speakers (charmed to fill the room).

"_Gooooood eeeeevening Hogwaaaaarts_," he called into the radio. To Scorpius, it sounded like a yawn. So dramatic. "_Allow me to welcome you all back to another week's episode of Hogwash, Hogwarts' one and only most popular radio show. Dost I hear a smattering of applause among the turrets?"_ As a matter of fact, no one was clapping; they were all familiar with Jordan's worn-down introduction._ "No need to thank me, folks, no need at all. Believe me, I've thanked myself enough for all of you."_ Cocky wizard, wasn't he?_ "Anyway, I'm sure you've all noticed our little musical introduction, done nicely by the Hufflepuff Chorus, taking time out of their busy schedules to record it for me . . ._"

"Get on with it, Jordan!" Craig Donovan called above a game of Exploding Snap a table over.

". . . _But this is neither here nor there_," Lee Jordan went on, as though hearing Donovan's comment. "_Hogwarts finds itself in the midst of yet another Christmas. The trees are up in the Great Hall, there's snow in the windows, exams are settling in, and the suits of armor are dancing. And no, I had nothing to do with that, for the record. Along with the Holidays comes the decision of going home for the season or remaining at Hogwarts. I have been 'politely' asked by Professor Robards that everyone who wishes to return home is asked to sign up in order to secure a seat on the Hogwarts Express. And I know seats are hard to come by on the Express, Professor. They do go fast. I myself was forced to walk home one blustery winter evening not long ago when I was a youngster like yourselves. Oh. Yes. I was kidding, kids. I don't know what the deal is with Robards, but he wants it done, so everyone, get it done and you won't have to stick around Hogwarts for Christmas. Now, that would be dreary_."

Which reminded Scorpius: He had recently been owled by his father with Christmas plans. Scorpius would return on the Hogwarts Express, among the other troves of students, and the rest of the Holidays would be spent visiting either his father's side, his mother's side, and, of course, devoted friends of the family. Scorpius, again, felt sick; dozens of stiff dinner parties and evenings spent playing dress-up (not to mention having to fake Slytherin as his true House) had never appealed to him. True, he could "manage" it. That is to say, "manage" meaning "closing his mouth, looking away, and avoiding all attention." He got by, yes, but he was in no way looking forward to his vacation.

" . . _. I mean, it wasn't the actual taste that bothered me, more so the fact that I was spending my Christmas Eve sitting across from my House Head in the Great Hall. To this day I can't eat pudding without that sour, awkward taste. Bad memories, kids, bad memories . . . Anyone up for a reading of Christmas wishes?_"

Scorpius rolled his eyes. "Christmas wishes?" He was done with it. He really, really was. Shutting his by now vast collection of studying materials he made his way towards the dormitories, pausing to throw his father's letter into the fire. The words _We look forward to seeing you_ crackled merrily in the flames like the lies that they were. That was another thing, he thought. Why was it that flames always seemed to be merry around Christmastime, as opposed to the usual stark imagery they were given at another other point in the year?

-

_Which charm caused Wizard Baruffio's downfall? _

_How the hell should I know?_

He had some trouble concentrating in his Charms exam due to the hushed whispers of Rose, Goldstein, and a selected few who were dying to get back at Peeves. Among written incantations and wrist movements he heard whispered threats decisions regarding the "prank." He wondered why they even bothered; no one, _no one_, could ever get the best of the poltergeist. And that was a fact. He turned around mid-exam to shush her.

Rose cocked her head to the side. "What?"

"I'm trying to take a test."

_Which charm caused Wizard Baruffio's downfall . . . ?_

She grinned snidely. "And I'm trying to plot. Has it occurred to you that your test-taking is hindering my planning ability here?"

He looked back at his test, stuck on question number thirty-four. "You're not funny."

She leaned forward in her desk; he could tell from the breath slowly tickling his neck as she breathed in and out. "Then maybe I can be quiet if you can tell me the spell for sound recording. Then maybe, just maybe, I can pause in my ponderings so _you_ can take your precious test."

As a matter of fact, Scorpius did know the spell; it had been in the footnotes of something he'd been reading just last week. Not that he'd ever actually tried it, and not that he felt complied to tell Little Miss I-Get-By-On-Wit-Alone Weasley. Keeping an eye out for the professor, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "I'll tell you if you, eh, 'jog' my memory on question 34."

There was a pause behind him; she appeared to be thinking it over. Professor Goshawk hobbled across the front of the class, waiting for them to finish. Finally the breathing on his neck changed as she spoke. "And what if I doubt you know it anyway?"

"I'm sure it'll be no loss to you," he replied snappily. "You're no stranger to cheating."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

With a resounding _slap_ of her cane against the desk's wood, Goshawk moved her gaze slowly over them, daring each one of them to speak again. Rose and Goldstein went back to their exams, but not without a quick "c" murmured in Scorpius' ear. He felt himself smiling. However, it was ringed in the dismal knowledge that, come night before they departed for home, he would be up in that tower along with the rest of Peeves' victims. And he wasn't so sure he wanted to be there.

-

"Are you sure he's asleep?"

"Sure I'm sure, I'm George Weasley's niece, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you and half of London. Merlin, it smells."

A large handful of Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and even a few Slytherins thrown in were crouched at the base of the Owlry in the dead of night. Rose and Alec Corner were bickering over the snoring poltergeist in the rafters above. He appeared to have slung himself a hammock of bird feathers and cob webs.

Scorpius poked Rose in the shoulder, keeping his footfalls silent. "I thought Peeves liked being up and about at midnight; why sleep now?"

The group was shocked into silence by a snort from Peeves and a mumbled phrase or two in what sounded like German. They all looked at each other. A bilingual Peeves? Nothing was far from the truth with him. They waited for him to settle soundly back into sleep before setting to work.

"Alright," stage-whispered Rose, "Roxanne, Fred, to battle stations." The twins practically clicked their heels and saluted before standing guard on opposite sides of the circular tower; with incredible spell precision they began casting the locoportus charm on the open windows of the tower: a charm that set up invisible wall-like imitations. Though a ghost could no doubt sail right through them, a poltergeist was a much different story. Their spells shimmered in the night air like nets as the owls rustled their feathers around them.

The remainder of the students set about placing their own individual spells, repetition jinxes to be exact, on different parts of the Owlry. One beneath the snowy owl here, one atop the feeding box there. Scorpius stood back with the twins to watch. He himself had shown their fellow students how to place recordings into spell-form, having read up on it two nights before. And they had listened. They had actually listened to the boy they had scorned for so long. Scorpius didn't know what was going on, but he had to say, it wasn't half bad.

_She loves this_, Scorpius thought, watching Rose stand in the very center of the floor and hold out her hands for the signal. More determination shone on her face than on any exam day. _She's enjoying every moment of this leadership_. In fact, it hadn't actually been Rose's idea, but Roxanne's. Of course. "On the count of three, everyone," she whispered, watching Peeves' slumber above (he liked to roll around in his hammock, cackling at random intervals in his sleep. "Three – two – one – "

And the spells were off with an explosion of light and sound, a single word cried by dozens of Hogwarts students, "_Rectify!_" The Owlry was soon flooded with Peeves' previously recorded shrieks.

"GOT YOUR CONK!"  
"ICKLE BICKLE FIRSTIES FOR SALE!"

"ARE YOU TELLING A LIESIE? YOU DARE TELL A LIESIE WITH PEEVSIE WATCHING?!"

"LOOPY LITTLE HUFFLEPUFFS ARE FUN!"

And, suddenly, the poltergeist was awake, slamming into the Owlry ceiling. Caged by his own screams, he attempted to escape through a window; unfortunately, due to the twins' expert locoportus charms, he simply bounced back, violently throwing himself against the thick stone walls. He screamed, cursed, and chattered foully to the students assembled below.

Fred laughed as he craned his neck back to watch their victim. "How does it feel, Peeves? Enjoying the taste of your own medicine?"

Miles was, for a change, delighted. "Yeah, and this is nothing compared to your dung stunt!" Scorpius glanced at his "friend" in amusement. Still bitter about that now, was he? The group was practically rolling on the dropping-covered floor in triumph as the poltergeist hit separate walls and rebounded to its opposite. It was like watching a muggle pinball in a machine, and for Peeves, there was no getting out.

Their fun was cut short when Hugo, the appointed lookout, barged in with the warning of Robards and Lee Jordan. Though they doubted everyone's favorite caretaker would do a thing about their antics aside laughing and congratulating, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was truly frightening late at night. Thus, they left the still-screaming Peeves in a rush, scrambling for their respective common rooms. Scorpius found himself running and panting down the hall beside Caitlin Goldstein. She risked a glance at him as they turned a sharp corner past a burping gargoyle.

"That was you who came up with the Rectify charm?" she asked, her face neutral.

He nodded. Just once. Scorpius had a way of nodded curtly as though, if you weren't looking closely enough, it seemed he hadn't nodded at all.

Goldstein almost grinned. "Listen, don't tell Rose this because I know she'd kill me, but that was kind-of-sort-of brilliant stuff back there."

And as he sped up, Scorpius began to feel as though, for the first time in six years, people were actually seeing him, and he was slowly becoming a Hogwarts student, Ravenclaw or not.

However,

His downfall came the day after.

The platform at Hogsmeade was filled with the normal insane bustle that made up the Hogwarts students assembling for the Holidays. The snow was coming down by the bundle, it seemed; every head and hat was coated with a nice layer of white as trunks and owl cages were hauled onto the platform. Though they would likely see each other on the train there, students were already hugging and exchanging early Christmas gifts. Scorpius trudged past a group of Fifth-Year girls huddled around a serenely-singing Christmas card (which turned into a very un-harmonious squawk by the end of the song as a joke) and caught Fiona Taberts opening a bag of Zonko's products with the Weasley twins (but closing it again after a monstrous roar escaped the canvas edges). He had just finished checking in with Professor Robards and grabbed his trunk's handle when something smacked him soundly on the back of the head.

"Sorry!" someone called, and then, "Oh, it's just you."

Three guesses who that could be, he mumbled to himself without a word. Rose Weasley, in a hurry, had turned sharply on her heel and slammed her broom handle into his neck. Why did things always resort to her accidently hitting him?

"Do you always have to be so clumsy with that piece of trash?" retorted Scorpius sourly, rubbing his already-sore neck. Her expression changed swiftly into a vastly defensive face. Apparently you don't mess with a Weasley about Quidditch.

"This _piece of trash_," she said, blue eyes narrowing, "Is worth more than anything you own, Scorpion. Honestly. Do you always have to be so inconsiderate?"

Watching the rush of students swarming the Express, he stepped forward slightly. Surprisingly, she took a step back, as though they had to keep a certain distance at all times. This reaction amused him, and he stepped closer again, if only to see her retreat again. "If I have ever been inconsiderate, it's because you've been so first."

Her back hit the brick pillar of the platform. She gripped her broom tighter, he noticed, fingers curling around the wood and turning red in the cold. "So, what you're saying is that if I suddenly turn into a soppy sweet nobody, you'll become a complete gentleman?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, what did you say?"

It completely caught him off-guard, his downfall. It grabbed him by the shins and threw him upside-down and shook all his carefully governed principles and theories from his pockets, sweeping them up and throwing them away before he could try to us them again. It thrust him headfirst into a prism that was not him, into a world that was not his. It pushed and introduced and, above all, surprised. And it was those eyes that did it – those wide, sometimes-malicious, sometimes-mischievous, sometimes-almost-admiring, pure blue eyes. When he looked into them, he saw himself reflected back, and he wanted, for the first time, to use Legilimency. He wanted to see what she was thinking, what exact thoughts she had of him, no matter what they were. And suddenly, without anyone meaning to, his lips were against hers.

At first it was just a touch, just a stupid, crazy, almost-accidental touch that could build up and break down impressions. And then, though he didn't expect it to, a response came from the other side of the void. Her lips pressed into his instead of pulling away; her fingers, the ones he hate-loved, ran paths through his hair, and he could think of nothing, just . . . her, the she-devil and the red-haired goddess. They kissed feverishly against the brick, taking and giving, exploring and needing, loving and hating. It was bitter and sweet, quiet and loud, cautious and reckless, an oxymoron of the Weasley and the Malfoy.

She was the one to break it, of course. She broke contact, paused without opening those snow-caught eyelashes that just barely brushed his skin, breathing him in, and then without a word she had left, broomstick and all.

He watched her leave, rushing down the platform as the Express whistled for the late-comers. And as he stood there, hair mussed where her hands had been and lips warm and tingling, the thick snowfall coated everything in cold and white. Almost . . . magical.

So, maybe Scorpius Malfoy didn't mind Christmas.

So. What.

A/N: Aaah. Eleven chapters and we're finally here, finally getting past their petty rivalries. Haha. I really didn't think it would take this long, but here we are.

Please continue to read/review, and I'll be up with another chapter soon :)


	13. Chapter 13: Have Yourself a

**A/N: **There were a few nice moments for me in this chapter that I bumped into unexpectedly, and though it's nowhere near Christmas here in the real world, I hope you guys can enjoy this next chapter.

**Chapter 12**

**Have Yourself a Weasley Christmas**

The lights of Diagon Alley sifted through the softy waving curtain; it quietly twisted in on itself as though underwater. Groaning, Rose buried herself under her blanket, limbs aching. She felt as though her _head_ was underwater. The noises of her family shifted from room to room below. Hugo as thumping from the living room to the kitchen, enormous footfalls marking his exits and entrances (his shoe size had, by now, surpassed Ron's). Her father was enlightening them on the latest details of his last Auror mission – thought these things were usually kept quiet – and her mother was ordering Hugo to do the dishes for once. By hand.

What. Had. Happened?

She rubbed her eyes sleeplessly and stared at a wizard photograph on the wall: little Rose and Albus, age seven, visiting dragons in Romania. His arm was around her shoulders protectively, and she was, of course, laughing her head off. If Albus had seen her on the Platform, he would have absolutely _murdered_ Scorpius. There was not a doubt in her mind.

Scorpius . . .

She felt many things toward him at the moment, most of all pure, typical Rose-Weasley anger. Why _kiss_ her? Why then? And why her? Was it all part of his tricks, to lull her into a false sense of security and then swoop in for the kill to her utter humiliation? _Why??_ Attempting another _crucio_ would have been much, much less confusing, even a relief. He was such an . . . Sighing, Rose turned away from the photo and curled up in a ball. She could not think of any words worse enough for the Malfoy.

But the absolute worst thing? The most terrible aspect of the entire situation?

She had kissed him back.

"Rosie? Darling?"

After knocking quietly, her mother poked her head into Rose's room. She was no doubt appalled by the unpacked trunk, the many crooked Quidditch posters and photos peppering the walls, but she did not show it. When her daughter didn't move, she crept through the mess to take a seat on Rose's (unmade, of course) bed. She leaned over to run a hand through her daughter's curls, and when Rose didn't pull away, she knew something was wrong.

"You didn't eat dinner," she said, straightening the blanket.

Rose bit her lip. "Wasn't hungry."

"Don't use that with me."

"But I wasn't, Mum."

They were quiet; Rose could feel the chill through the open window now, raising the skin on her arms whereas before she did not notice it. Refusing to look at her mother, she stood and crossed her room to shut the glass pane. She hadn't gotten halfway there before, with a dull flash of purple, they shut on their own. She turned to see her mother with her wand raised, giving her a knowing glance.

"Please, Rose," she said simply. She was used to dealing with her daughter's tantrums and sullen silences by now. Rose was, after all, and emotional creature. "What's happened?"

Rose hugged her arms to herself even as the air began to warm. She felt her semi-secret taunt her deep within the pit of her stomach. She was no secret-keeper, had never thought to be one. The truth was, Rose didn't ever have anything worth keeping a secret. Until now. She looked out the window past the curtains. "It's complicated."

Hermione knew when she wasn't getting through. Putting on her best I-Understand smile, she stood, picking up one of Rose's text books off the floor. "Alright," she said. "Just tell me when you're ready."

Honestly, with a secret like this, Rose felt she would never be ready. Besides, it was just a kiss, she told herself. It would and could never be anything more. She knew her mother wouldn't make her tell her, and she was glad; now that the thought occurred to her, neither her mother or her father would react well to hearing she had . . . kissed . . . a Malfoy and enjoyed it.

Enjoyed it? Was she admitting that now? Was she?

The first breakfast in the Weasley household tasted like home. Rose stumbled down the spiral staircase bleary-eyed and fog-headed, as usual. And, as usual, Hugo was already seated at the table. He was mulling over some Gryffindor friend's letter when she sat down, to which he decided to call attention.

"Nice to see you among the living, loser," he said, flipping the page over to scribble a reply. He had to lean his long neck over the page awkwardly to see what he was writing. Hugo was everything she couldn't be: Determined, an early-riser, and good at keeping his temper in check. It really made her look "great" in front of their parents. Speaking of . . .

"Where're Mum'n Dad?" she asked him, digging through the Daily Prophet to find the Quidditch section (and, in turn, a freshly-printed column by Ginny Weasley). The absence of food on the table was unusual.

Hugo shrugged. "Dad took a quick trip to the Ministry, had to clear some stuff up with something, and Mum's in the kitchen making breakfast." He sifted through the papers on the table for a spare quill. "Sorry: _trying_ to make breakfast."

"Trying" was most definitely the appropriate word. Hermione was many, many things, things that could fill up a list of items. "Cook" was not on that list. Even now Rose thought she smelled burnt eggs. She nodded at her little brother. "Won't you help her? I think I hear yells."

"Why don't you do it? You're the woman here," he said without glancing up.

"Hugo!"

By the time their father had made his way home, snowflakes in his hair and paperwork to fill out ("Auror Department's not all about the action, you know") and had reached around his wife to adjust the burners and fix them all up a nice meal, all four were starving. Hermione magicked up a roaring morning fire in the dining room as Hugo and Rose quarreled over who read which section first.

"I could tear it up, you know," Ron threatened, inching his wand closer to his plate. "But then again, what good is that to your mum and I?"

Unfazed, Hugo tossed him the Classifieds and stole back the culture section from his sister. Just like him, assuming one person's trash is another's treasure. And to Ron Weasley, the classifieds were not exactly a "treasure." Their father set the paper aside and sprinkled pepper over his entire meal, a strange habit that his daughter had picked up along the way. "So. How's school? Miserable yet?"

"School's school," Rose replied simply. She didn't want to get into it now. Hugo, on the other hand, was full of news. A little too full of news, as it turned out.

"The Quidditch season's completely fascinating so far," he detailed. Hugo had been trying out for the Hufflepuff Team since Second Year and had not, as of late, made it on. "James, he's even better than last year. In Gryffindor's last match, he tried the Wronski Feint. No, correction: Not tried, he _did_. It was . . . .great."

Rose grinned. Way to turn things around.

"And Halloween, Roxanne and Fred planned out this huge prank against the Slytherins. They were all blue by the end of it. And, speaking of pranks, there was this incredible one just before we left against Peeves."  
"Peeves?" Hermione choked on her orange juice. "Peeves isn't worth your time, Hugo. Just leave him be and he won't bother you."

Ron shrugged. "Much."

"But it was so great!"

Apparently everything in Hugo's year was "great" thus far. He went on, hand gestures and all, until his stories finally wound themselves down. His parents were amused, in any case. Rose thought they had finally heard the last of it when he added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh yeah, and now Rose is running around kissing everybody."

She slammed a hand down on the table. "What?!"

Ron peered over his glass, bemused. "Is that so, Rose? Who's the lucky man?"

She spluttered. She couldn't help it. Not that the kiss was private – on the contrary, it really had been in the open – she was shocked that her brother knew about it. Had potentially seen it. "There – I mean, there is no lucky – it was just - "‑­

Hermione passed her son more bacon as though rewarding him. "Hugo, you tell us."

Rose thought her heart was going to explode right then and there.

"Dunno," he replied carelessly. "Couldn't really see his face. Rose's hand was in the way; she was pretty into it."

"_I WAS NOT_!"

Proud as they were, her parents left her alone about it the rest of the day – it was just a kiss, after all – and didn't even tell the rest of the family about it when they arrived at the Potters' for Christmas-Eve the following day, much to Rose's ultimate relief. She had enough time wrestling her emotions to have rumors spread around her entire family. And her family wasn't small.

The Potter house was situated on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow. Small and comfortable but with plenty of yard (and, therefore, Quidditch) space, Rose had spent many childhood days picking blueberries in the front bushes (only to have them stolen later by the gnome that resided among the thistles), having mud fights with her cousins, swinging on the old Muggle car tire, or swimming in the pond out back. She had learned how to swim here, had stepped on a broom for the first time here. They paused at the front gate to ensure they had all the gifts wrapped and ready before stepping through the snowy lawn and into the brightly-lit house.

Harry threw open the door, glad to receive his two best friends and their family. Rose and Hugo scrambled inside to get out of the cold, eager to greet the cousins they saw every day anyway. The den was a second home to them. Rose had memorized the pictures on the walls – the deceased Potter parents, Lily and James (Senior); the framed acceptance letter to Ginny from the Holyhead Harpies; Lily's scribbled drawings from her childhood; the occasional Dursley family photograph hung, obligingly, among the wizard photos and looking like a fish out of water; a Dumbledore's Army coin on the mantle, next to a Shudder Shrub from Neville tamed, no doubt, by daily tickling. On this particular evening it seemed half of Hogwarts was stuffed into the tiny den, knocking things over in both laughter and argument. The den had seemed a lot bigger when they were all younger( and considerably shorter). Lily and Roxanne sat on their stomachs on the floor pouring through Muggle magazines, James was bragging to Fred and Louis and anyone else who would listen, Dominique and Molly were trying on scarves straight off of the streets of Paris and were attempting to tie one around Al's head while Lucy looked on with a disdainful eye, and Ted and Victoire shared the couch in front of the fire, fingers entwined.

Yes. It wasn't a Weasley Christmas until the whole gang was stuffed into one small room for an evening. Just the way they liked it.

Hugo joined James, Louis, and Fred on the coffee table to chat dragons and Quidditch ("man stuff," he called it, much to Rose's amusement) while Rose took a seat on the floor beside Lily. Something strange had rubbed off from Grandpa Arthur to his granddaughter Lily: his avid and odd fascination with Muggles. She liked to wear Muggle music band t-shirts, kept a library of Muggle books, even owned something called a "dvd player" from which she could watch Muggles in their previously recorded adventures.

"Rose, fantastic win on Saturday," Roxanne put in, turning the page of some fashion magazine but not seeming interested by it.

Rose grinned broadly. "Thanks. There was some cheating in there, some foul play - "

"Hey, I was entertained." Roxanne stretched, reaching bronze hands for the ceiling, uncomfortable with their seats on the floor and antsy for something to do. "What do you have up your sleeve for the next match?"

"There won't be much, not with Owen Spinnet as high and mighty as he is." And so they were kept busy for the next half hour verbally bashing Rose's captain to their hearts' content. Apparently Owen Spinnet had no fans among the Gryffindors, either, infamous as he was for his need to control on and off the pitch. She was just about to go into the Peeves prank one more time when Lily moved her hand on the pages she was looking through, several pages with lines and dots printed across in a reasonably orderly fashion. And when that hand was moved, Rose couldn't help freezing by what she saw on the page.

She couldn't believe it.

"Lily!" she cried, without meaning to. Lily raised a skeptical eyebrow, surprised. "What the hell is that?!"  
She spread out the pages, obviously perplexed. "Muggle sheet music. Got it on a street corner in London, set out for the carolers."

"No, _that_," Rose said, stabbing the page. There, on the sheet, the "s" symbol was etched into one of the lines.

Lily just shrugged, looking over at Roxanne for some help. "Er, that'd be a treble clef, I think. There's treble and there's bass, see; the lower part goes in the bass clef, while the higher goes in the treble, which is really what it means. Other than that, I'm quite musically challenged. Why do you ask?"

Rose felt her head spinning as James rallied the cousins for a snowball fight in the backyard; Here it was, right in front of here, staring her down in the face. A strange little figment of music. It was the right symbol, she was sure of it. How had it gotten carved into a back wall in Hogsmeade village? And why?

She wrote a letter to Scorpius that night. Writing a letter to Scorpius Malfoy . . . What had life come to?

_Malfoy – _

_Found our little mystery on a page of Muggle music. I know what it means in Muggle context, but not in wizard. It's the last thing I expected it to be, and was in the last place I thought of looking. ‑­_

_(Maybe you should take this as a lesson for your future "research sessions.") I don't want to say we're back where we started, but maybe we are. In any case, I need to find out what it really means. You know?_

_- Rose_

_PS: I'm so confused. Not about the symbol. About . . . you. About me. I don't even know what to say._

After finishing, she sat back at her desk and took in her pathetic words. And she did something she had never done before:

She rewrote it.

Two, three, four times. It wasted ink and paper and she ended up saying the same things as before. But the fact that she actually rewrote it baffled her. She had to wonder, why did she care what he read in the letter? Why did she care what he thought of her, period? Sighing in frustration, she threw on one of her dad's old Weasley sweaters (maroon, with the "R" knitted across the front which she supposed worked for her, as well) and made her way onto her balcony, more of an iron slab than anything, to send Pig, the family owl, out to deliver the letter; as an afterthought she tied one of Lily's sheets of music to the actual letter with a leftover red ribbon. Pig chirped in confusion after she spoke the name "Malfoy" to him, but flapped off anyway.

"You and me both," she muttered, leaning over the balcony's rail to ponder her confusion. Below the lights of Diagon Alley sent a rosy glow up at her; Christmas lights were strung across most store fronts, and a pair of George Weasley's Automatic-Works fireworks were setting themselves off above his store further down the Alley; normally she could barely see Weasley Wizard Wheezes from her window, but tonight, it was impossible to miss, oddly beautiful in its red-bedecked splendor. Shivering, she tugged her father's sweater closer to her body. It was late on Christmas Eve and she should really be sleeping.

Suddenly, something cracked beside her ear and a figure appeared out of nowhere. Rose jumped, hitting her back against the rail. Her first instinct was to grab her wand from her jeans' pocket (which were currently strewn on her bedroom floor, leaving her in nothing but dirty pajama bottoms and an enormous sweater). Standing in front of her, dusting himself off but obviously still not used to the shock of Apparating, Scorpius Malfoy met her eyes with a guilty glance.

Her second instinct was to scream. However this, too, was no good as Scorpius had his hand over her mouth before she had the chance to make a sound. She thrashed, furious, eager to get him away from her.

"How – you dare – what – how – _why are you here??_" she stuttered, backing up, still unable to comprehend that this enemy/whatever else he was at the moment was standing on her balcony as though he did it every day. Her words lodged in her throat and the infamous (albeit angry) Weasley wit left her. His hand had been soft against her mouth, fingertips brushing her cheek. _Don't think that, Rose, don't you dare! You know the only reason his hand is soft has to be his long, wimpy hours spent in the library. He's a parasite, now stay away. _Though, no matter how many times she told herself otherwise, she couldn't step back into her room, couldn't ask him to leave. She hated it.

Scorpius put his hands into his robe's pockets and grinned at her. No. This wasn't right. Scorpius did not _grin_ at her. Grimace, maybe; scowl, all the time. But grin?? "So. I wanted to say something to you."

"What?" she asked snidely. "That you know how to Apparate and can conveniently do it outside my room?"

That grin was still there. "Early birthday. I'm not very good at it yet, so I don't exactly go around boasting about it." Come to think about it, Scorpius didn't boast about anything. If he was good at anything (was he?) he kept it to himself. He stood there in the cold, breath billowing around him, running a hand through his overgrown blond haircut and trying not to look at her. Her lips twitched. She wouldn't call him modest, wouldn't call him bashful. Just . . . Scorpius.

She bit the inside of her mouth. "So, what did you want to say? Did you get my owl already?"

"You sent me an owl?" Was that hope she heard in his dark voice? Real hope? She could tell that he tried to hide it, though, by rubbing the back of his neck.

She nodded, enlightening him about the symbol on Lily's sheet music. His strange grin formed into a frown, furrowing against his brow. Neither of them understood it – how could they? – and instead of taking one step forward, they were back at the beginning again.

At the beginning again . . .

"So, what was it you wanted to tell me?" asked Rose; she hugged herself against the cold.

Scorpius didn't answer. Instead he leaned over the balcony rail, watching the slumbering Diagon Alley smoldering in Christmas Eve. There was an excitement there that could only be truly awakened by Christmas morning. But somehow she doubted he really saw the Alley. He was looking past it, thinking, maybe deciding. "I wanted to tell you I was sorry. Am sorry."

"For what?"

The wind tugged at his hair. "You know."

She blinked. "You're . . . sorry?" _Sorry_, a word they rarely used between the two of them, and he was telling her he was sorry for what had happened? Sorry for changing, if only for the instant? Sorry for touching her with anything but contempt? "You're sorry, for kissing me? For kissing _me_?"

"I'm apologizing, aren't I?" he said, stony-faced.

Feeling the anger and disappointment stirring within her, Rose let out a long, low breath. She repeated his words, trying to understand. "You're apologizing . . ." And in a matter of seconds Rose, the theatrics-inclined 16-year-old witch she was, felt her emotions running through her veins and straight to her head. Her face stung as though he'd slapped her; she didn't even have time to think about who she was dealing with. "Am I really that unappealing to you?"

"No –" he broke in. If Malfoy weren't so damn pale he'd be reddening by now. "I mean, yes. I mean . . ." He seemed to be attempting neutrality. Indifferent, as he himself had put it months ago.

"Am I?"

Scorpius blew the hair out of his eyes in frustration as she inched away from him and towards her own room. He shook his head. "What I was doing, Weasley, was apologizing for putting you in that situation. For kissing you when I'm the one you hate most. I was apologizing for all that," he said, tightening his hold on the rail until his knuckled whitened, "And yet, it seems there's no need."

There followed a moment, just one, in which they stood far apart in the nighttime glow of Diagon Alley. Rose didn't feel the cold anymore; she forgot it was Christmas Eve (or, judging by the hour, probably Christmas itself); she forgot that her parents, enemies of his family, were sleeping just inside; she forgot the fact that he was always the star of her nightmares. All she could think of now was the way he stood, staring at her. He'd gotten taller. Not tall, of course; even Hugo, ever the gangly adolescent, was taller than Scorpius. The innocent lines of his face, the ones she hated, had grown jagged; his eyes, usually filled with distaste, were sharper, bigger, as though he had seen too much these past few years. She realized she had spent so much time hating him she hadn't even noticed him growing up before her. She suddenly supposed she had changed just as much; they were no longer bickering, feuding First Years.

And instead of putting thought into it, she put herself. She strode forward the spaces between them and took his face in her hands. He touched her elbows. And when she found his eyes she saw the pain there, the pain that in the past she'd both hated and loved to see. Now, today, it was there nonetheless, and there was no easing it away. She drew closer, closer, until they were within an inch. She breathed her words, something she wasn't used to. The Rose Weasley everyone knew screamed and exclaimed, not murmured or whispered. "Don't hurt me, Scorpius."

He smiled, but remained where he was. "I've been trying to hurt you for the past six years. It might be hard to break old habits."

"Mmhm." She grinned, too, and slowly pulled away, growing colder as she moved further from him. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"We'll see," he told her. There was another pause, but warmer than the first. Both nodded, an understanding passing between them. And no "understanding" had ever passed between them other than _I really want to kill you right now._ "See you at school, then."

"See you at school."

And with an ear-splitting pop, he was gone from her balcony, gone from sight. She retreated to her room, knowing she was in for a very unique Christmas. But then again, wasn't that what all Christmases were like in the Weasley household?


	14. Chapter 13: Fireside Chat

**A/N: **I believe quick thank-you is due to all my lovely reviewers; your various comments have really made this fic. I love em, and I will definitely keep it up if you keep it up :)

Once agin, enjoy!

**Chapter 13**

**Fireside Chat**

Feeling incredibly insecure, Scorpius walked backwards to catch his reflection in the guest room's mirror. His dress robes were impeccably cut, of course, tailored to fit just yesterday at his aunt's robe shop according to his mother's instruction. Just like her, he thought. His mother slid into his life to ensure he made a good impression but backed out of it when he started talking about his classes and teachers. His father was a different story; wanted to know which pureblood friends he had, wanted to know what he was learning, wanted to know that his only child was walking correctly in his footsteps.

As an afterthought, Scorpius tucked his new silver- plated pocket watch into his jacket; it had been his Christmas gift from both his parents. No doubt they wanted him to show the old family heirloom around tonight. Sighing, he looked himself in the eye once more, squared his shoulders, and prepared to set foot in the lion's den.

The "lion's den" just happened to be splendidly decorated and filled to the tapestry-covered walls with witches and wizards of one sort: pure, distinctly Slytherin, and reasonably well-off. His grandfather, the host, was presently busy calling over the tray-smothered house elves to serve a group of guests the appetizers. The trays snaked around ankles and robe hems through the hall, their bearers too short to be seen. Scorpius leaned his head back to admire the intricately-decorated ceiling. His own house, on the coast, was a bit more normal than his grandparents', though Scorpius had by now grown familiar and lax with the splendor of Malfoy Manor.

"Scorpius, finally!" a voice that belonged unmistakably to his father called out across the hall. There he was, striding through the masses of guests to greet his son. Though Draco Malfoy appeared slightly unhealthy with his graying hair and ghostly pallor, he moved through the room with a certain strength which could only derive from the trials he had been forced to overcome. It was Draco Malfoy who had restored both his father and himself to their original financial comfort after their collapse following the Second War.

Scorpius cringed a bit when his father put a hand on his shoulder. He wasn't sure why. "I see your aunt did a wonderful job on your dress robes," his father observed, tugging at one of the sleeves. "Although a bit stiff. But that could just be you. Aren't you enjoying any of this?"

He looked around him at the many people he didn't know (and the many he did, but wished he didn't). Dozens of faces who would soon ask him about his perfectly Slytherin adventures at school smiled icily back. "It's just a bit . . . _cold_ in here, Dad."

His grandfather, who had been chatting just two people away, glanced over; Scorpius could've sworn he saw a certain gleam in Lucius' eye. "Cold you say, Scorpius?" he asked, abandoning his guests with a nod. "There is such thing as a fireplace, you do know that." His eyes traveled to the sofas on the far end of the room; where the dining room table used to be, groups of chairs and a couch were arranged before the fireplace crackling with green and red flames in honor of the season. Scorpius nodded, deciding it couldn't be any less interesting than loafing among his relatives and friends-of-relatives. However, as he began to shuffle towards the fire, he noticed his grandfather's eyes on him. They were leaving him alone, with the knowledge of doing so? There had to be a catch.

That "catch" turned out to be a pointy-faced, dark-haired girl sitting beside the fire, back ramrod straight and smile grim.

"Dorina Niculai," his grandfather told him as they watched her from afar. "A Durmstrang student; She's your age, about seventeen. Her parents are well connected in the Russian wizard council; the Niculai family's one of the oldest Russian magical lines left."

Scorpius regarded her with distaste; he knew what his grandfather was doing and he didn't appreciate it. "How . . . pleasant . . . for her."

His grandfather practically pushed him towards the fire. "Go on, go on, you can introduce yourself, you know."

"Actually, it's not that cold. I'm going to get something to drink - "

"Oh, no," Lucius Malfoy interjected quickly, catching on. "I'll sent Drixy over with some of the drinks. Now, go on."

Scorpius felt as though he were back at his sixth birthday party, his family coaxing him on to make nice little pure friends so he could one day be respected by their kind. He turned, almost expecting to see his mother with his golden snitch cake. Instead he faced his father and grandfather, their images mirrors of his own in different stages of aging: supposedly like him, and yet, he realized, he was wandering further and further from his father's footsteps every day.

And he thought of Rose.

_Don't think about her now, don't you dare think about her._

Yet his thoughts strayed to the Weasley anyway, standing on her balcony in the freezing cold, the balcony which had taken him three tries to Apparate to, red hair falling out of her bun and scattering around her face, wearing an oversized sweater . . .

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

If only to abide by his family's wishes, he took a seat in one of the icily leather armchairs beside the girl's couch. He turned his head to the flames, feeling their slow heat radiating from the multicolored flames.

When she spoke, she used a pinched voice, as though she was trying to limit the words that escaped her mouth. "You're the youngest Malfoy?"

He refused to look over. "And you're a Niculai."

"You've heard of us, then?" There was an unmistakable lilt of pride to her voice. Scorpius had heard of them, yes; most in his family's crowd had. Pure blood lines were not common, especially today. The few that were left were celebrated, seen as more powerful, more magical, than the troves of half-bloods and muggle-borns that now roamed the streets.

She seemed pleased when he nodded. "There's no mistaking your family. Everyone up north talks about you."

Scorpius tilted his head, almost intrigued. "Really."

"Yes, really," the Niculai replied.

"Alright."

"You're the traitors."

The family pride force-fed to him since birth lurched in his stomach; since when had they been known as traitors? She went on, unabashed. "Everyone knows about it, how your family switched sides throughout the War. You chose whoever could keep them in the best standing." Her eyes roved around the Christmas decorations in the hall; across the floor, grandfather had hired a string quartet. A tiny smirk alighted on her face. "Seems they chose correctly."

Despite the flames, Scorpius couldn't help shuddering. It wasn't long before he left her to her arrogance and hurried round the hall, thoughts buzzing through his head. In many ways, they were similar; but in many more ways, they were completely different. Both were the youngest descendents of Europe's purest families, both had the importance of bloodlines drilled into them all their lives. And yet, he was the one who had kissed a Weasley blood-traitor, he was the one who'd enjoyed it. Yes, he'd _enjoyed_ it. That didn't mean he was planning the honeymoon, it only meant he didn't regret it. Scorpius, though usually stone-faced in public, swiped a hand across his brow in frustration, which he found himself doing a lot these days. If only he could escape this, if just for a moment, and become some simple-minded wizard with a thoroughly normal family and a thoroughly normal love interest, one without a feud with said thoroughly normal family.

They took the Floo Network home, having spent the previous night at Malfoy Manor. Once stepping out of the sparkling green flames and sneezing a few times, the Malfoys lugged their overnight bags up the staircases to their respective closets.

"_What_ a Christmas," sighed his mother as they trudged up the stairs, pulling her dark hair out of its pin and easing the sparse wrinkles below her eyes. (Funny, Scorpius didn't remember his mother getting wrinkles.) "And Serps Dragani come all the way from St. Mungo's at last, thank god, I was beginning to worry. Madame Jeshka looked wonderful, surprisingly, just out of that terrible divorce, so tragic. And what of the Doyles? Absolutely atrocious."

His father stopped at the landing and glanced back at his son. "What did you think of the Niculai daughter?

Scorpius gripped the strap of his backpack. He was grateful for the darkness of the unlit house; he didn't want to see the disappointment in his father's face. "She wasn't . . . my type."

Draco laughed, somewhat coldy. "And what's your type, boy? She not pretty enough for you? That it?"

"She called us traitors, Dad."

All three were quiet. Without a word, they filed into their rooms and fell into sleep.

At least the Malfoy parents did.

_I am in so much trouble_, Scorpius thought to himself as he clutched his pillow and stared at his wall. His room was surprisingly blank, personalityless. His Hogwarts robes were folded (though hurriedly) in his trunk, his books were stuffed, cover-to-cover, in his bookcases. He even had neatly arranged books atop his bed's headboard. There were no photos of him and his nonexistent friends, no Quidditch banners, no House flags. His thoughts circled everything troubling him, from Rose Weasley to Rose Weasley to Rose Weasley. He wondered why he didn't just make things simple and allow himself to give in to whatever this was. But then he remembered who he was, where he was, and what he was: A Malfoy.

Deciding that sleep wasn't really essential, it being the winter holidays, Scorpius took a break from his tossing and turning to drink some stale pumpkin juice in the dark of the kitchen. The embers in the fire pit smoldered quietly, casting small shadows on the table legs. He held the cup in both hands, staring into the darkening fire. Maybe no one would ever know about it. Maybe he could return to Hogwarts and pretend it had never happened. Maybe the Weasleys would unexpectedly move to Albania, leaving him with the blissful simplicity of Rose's absence. No, he didn't want that . . .

"Anxious, are you?" a voice startled him from the staircase. Scorpius' heart leapt, though it was only his father. He let out a long breath as Draco opened the fridge lazily with his wand. "Something bothering you?"

He took another sip. "Just . . . things on my mind."

"What things?" he asked, perhaps obligingly. "Trouble at school?"

Scorpius looked past him to the stone inlay of the wall, into which he and his parents had carved different runes when he was a boy, their idea of a family activity. He looked at his father now, rubbing his back, sore from sleep, but still carrying the air of impeccability leftover from chatting in public. He thought of what his father must have been like at his age, not a hair out of place, successful in everything. That was when he remembered something Rose had said, back when she wasn't so confusing: _He used to cry in the boys' bathroom . . . cry. He was just a coward. _And suddenly he looked his father in the face, searching for an answer. "Dad."

Draco heated a cup of tea with the tip of his wand. "Hm?"

"Tell me about Dumbledore."

There was a clatter as he backed into the fridge and dropped his wand; he threw in a curse word or two as the now-hot tea spilled over his fingers. He coughed. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Dumbledore," Scorpius repeated. "You told me you were there when he died. I heard something from somewhere and . . . anyway, why exactly were you there?"

His father preoccupied himself, wiping his hands with a Malfoy-monogrammed dishtowel and searching for his wand on the floor. Upon finding it, he sat down across from Scorpius, back to the flames, and fanned the steam emanating from his cup. "There is a reason I don't talk about that time in my life, Scorpius."  


He snorted. "Maybe when I was six, sure, but Dad? I'm seventeen, I'm of age. I have a right to know." Even Scorpius was surprised with himself now; he was not one for confronting people, not unless they messed with him, and especially not his father. Their relationship was built on solid silences and respect, not _this_.

He sighed. "Alright, alright." The embers threw him in a red-tinged silhouette as he drank his tea. "You've learned all about the Dark Lord, I suspect?"

Scorpius scoffed; of course he had. He'd been forced to play him every week in Defense Against the Dark Arts, thanks to Robards' love for theatrics and Rita Skeeter.

"Though I originally believed in his basic principles, his basic ideas, the way he achieved them was not . . . well, let's say, it wasn't 'desirable', not even to me. Your grandfather as you know was also a Death Eater; one night, with one stupid move, he displeased the Dark Lord. As punishment, he gave me the task of killing Albus Dumbledore."

Scorpius' eyes suddenly flew to his father's wand, alarmed. Was this the wand that had murdered the greatest wizard of all time?

Draco went on. "It was an impossible task. Dumbledore was powerful, perhaps even moreso than the Dark Lord; how was I, a mere 16-year-old boy, to even _hurt_ him? I tried planning it for months and months; I attempted stupid stunts to get him killed, if only to keep the Lord from murdering my entire family in cold blood. Then came that night." He breathed deeply, bowing his head as the shadows took over.

Scorpius didn't dare say a word.

"He was at the top of the astronomy tower. Defenseless and suddenly weak. Something had happened to him before, I saw, and my chance shone before me. I had the wand, he didn't. And he said to me: 'It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now.'" He was staring past Scorpius now, past everything. "I was about to do it, or at least I thought I was. But as I stood there, staring at this shaking old man and his stupid half-moon spectacles he had been peering over at me since First Year, I suddenly realized I'd never had any intention of killing him. And, though I had my wand raised and he could barely stand upright, it was me who was unarmed." He coughed again, as if to dislodge the memory. "And then a man named Severus Snape rushed in and killed him for me, and it was all over. _That_, Scorpius, is what happened that night."

There was a flash in Scorpius' mind as he remembered the portrait in Grey's office, the one who had called him "Draco's boy" and his father "pathetic." He shuddered, staring into his pumpkin juice. "Was that when you cried in the bathroom?"

Draco's fingers stiffened around his cup. His head snapped up. "What was that?"

"It's just, I - "

"_Where did you hear that?_"

Scorpius sat up straighter, bewildered by his father's turn of emotion. "Nowhere! I heard it from nowhere!"

Suddenly furious and alert, Draco stood and knocked his chair back, practically growling out the word. "_Potter_."

No one spoke. Scorpius struggled to swallow, to get over this sudden fear, as his father clenched his fists above him. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to get out of this. He had to clamp his mouth shut so as not to randomly burst out _I kissed Rose Weasley! _

His father was still angry, as it turned out. "You could've only heard that from a Potter, Scorpius; what were you doing with a _Potter_? Answer me!"

And as Scorpius looked up at his father, fury clenching his jaw, he saw how rough this childhood rivalry had grown over time. He didn't know how it had happened, but his father was, in the end, deeply affected by it. Almost dangerously so. And despite everything, he wondered how it had gotten to this.

"Scorpius!"

"I'm sorry, Dad," he broke in. "One of them was tormenting me, started ranting about you, trying to get to me . . . I couldn't help but ask about it."

Above him, Draco loosed his fists and breathed out through his nose. He stood there, obviously shaken, and began to suddenly laugh humorlessly. Loud, painful laughs tainted by aggravation. "_Merlin_, this will never end, will it?"

There was an owl awaiting him outside his window once Scorpius made his way back to his room. It was a tiny little thing, big enough to fit in his hand, and he had a strange urge to squash it as it chirped madly in his ear. Fortunately, it left quickly, not expecting a reply from a Malfoy, of course. He skimmed through the letter and felt his heart pound faster at the last line:

_I'm_ _so confused. About . . . you and me. I don't even know what to say_.

Tossing the letter and sheet music onto a nearby pile of Muggle classics, he rolled onto his bed and groaned.

That makes two of us, Rose Weasley.

-


	15. Chapter 14: Giving Change

**A/N: **Oh, god . . . . it has been a long, long, long time. I thought I'd put this story aside, but I, unfortunately, can't just quit something once I've started. So, here ya go, the continuation of our tale, if anyone's still reading. Haha. I'm SO sorry I didn't update for, what, three months? My excuses: I've moved out, I'm in college, I ran into a bad relationship ("love" those), I'm hanging between two jobs. But none of those should matter when it comes to writing.

Enjoy! Sorry about the ridiculous delay!

**Chapter 14**

**Giving Change**

Rose wished the non-complicated holiday days could stretch on forever; she wished she would never stop baking cookies at noon with the Weasley twins (cut in somewhat obscene shapes on Fred's part), wished the snowball fights in the Potter yard would never end, wished she could laze around Diagon Alley until the day she died. Though she adored the constant movement of Hogwarts, she enjoyed the comforts of home too much to really want to go back. After puzzling through Quibbler wordsearches with Lily, visiting Victoire and Ginny at work just a few blocks down, having enormous all-cousin lunches at the Leaky Cauldron and trying to pay all in change to Hannah Longbottom's irritation, and owling Albus across the room if only to bewilder Pig, she wasn't sure she was ready for another lesson with Robards and Goshawk.

The compartment she shared with Caitlin, David, Albus, and Lily was filled with the excitement of showing off new Christmas gifts; David had a new watch, bought by his Muggle dad in New York, Caitlin had renewed subscriptions to her favorite wizard magazines (the "nonrubbish ones," as she called them), while Al, Lily, and Rose all sported their new Weasley sweaters from Grandma Molly, and didn't hesitate to pass around her specially-made Chipper Fudge, a chocolate with a quick happiness boost.

"Mine's better than yours," Lily taunted Al, tugging at her green sweater. "Look, yours's all messy on the hems, cuz she cares about me more."

Albus tried composing himself; though he was sixteen and she fourteen, both still bickered like children. "You really can't find anything to brag about, can you?" he replied, though not without tugging on the hem of his red "AL" sweater self-consciously. Rose just laughed at the two of them.

"Getting back in the swing of things" did not prove easy; Rose, accustomed to sleeping to noon, had Caitlin force her up every morning for classes. Yes, school had always been easy for her, but now that they were all shoved unceremoniously back into the fast stream of Hogwarts, she found herself soon drowning in half-written essays. "And it's only our first day back," she groaned at dinner that evening, her curls drooping in the pudding. David patted her on the back.

Lucy drank smugly from her goblet across the table. "I told you over break you should have studied a _little_." Even though Percy usually only liked to drop by when it was absolutely necessary (he was currently having a love affair with his work), Lucy still managed to get a word in about studying even as they sang carols and danced to the Ma-Ma-Muggles in the den.

Caitlin laughed. "Rose Weasley? Studying? A crazy notion."

Easing away her headache, she sat up and searched the table. A certain Malfoy was nowhere in sight. She had caught glimpses of him in Charms _and_ Transfiguration, but they had both been too busy to catch eyes or exchange words. Was he avoiding her?

_Good_, she tried telling herself, _That makes less complication for me._

Though she knew it wasn't true.

After dinner, she decided she needed to study for Defense Against the Dark Arts the next morning on stunning spells. At least, that was what she swore she was up to. If self-consciously she was really looking for a blond-haired lonely boy, so be it.

He was in his usual spot, sitting against the window and basking in the nighttime glow of the library candles. Strangely, he wasn't reading; his book lay open on the floor as he stared out across the dark grounds. She had a feeling his thoughts, like her own, were not so straight-forward these days.

Hiding her grin, Rose knocked on the wood of the bookcase, as though it were a door and she were intruding. In response, he said her name without turning his head.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the bookcase. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Saw your reflection," he replied, smirking into the glass. "You're a smart one, Weasley."

She studied him; he had his arms crossed over his knees, eyes on the grounds, stony-faced. There was something strange about him, she realized, there had to be. He held his shoulders differently, set his facial features differently: lightly, almost as if he was laughing inside. And without thinking (as usual), Rose strode across the bookcases and took her place on the opposite side of the window, feet intermingling with his due to the lack of room.

"How was your Christmas?" she asked, feeling the somewhat awkward silence nudge at their subconscious.

He was quiet for a moment, staring at their feet pushed together on the ledge: she, the purple converse shoes she liked to wear even with her Hogwarts robes; he, the protocol black soles issued with the Hogwarts uniform. And all he could say was, "Will everything change?"

Rose thought about it. She thought about what they had always been, and thought about what they could be. "Not _everything_, of course," she replied. "I'm sure I'll still hate you a lot of the time."

He looked at her. "Is that true?"

"No, it's not true," she said. Something about his gaze, suddenly intensified over the past few days, forced her to speak the truth.

Around them, the quiet noises of the library filtered into the background: The creeping footsteps of Madame Pince, the flutter of pages, the shushed laughter of studying students, the soft thump of books hitting tables. It was the heartbeat of Hogwarts, of their world.

"You were right," said Scorpius suddenly.

She glanced up. "About what?"

"My father."

Her eyebrows raised. She had seen the icy-voiced Malfoy on a few rare occasions, and none had been very pleasant. She remembered what her father had told her about him after running into him at Gringotts when she was ten: _A coward, and that's all I need to say about that bloke, Rosie_. Though she sometimes found him obnoxious at times, as every teenage girl does, she could never imagine feeling the way about her father the way Scorpius appeared to feel about his: first and foremost the obliged respect, and then, the hard-hitting shame.

"He was . . . not who I thought he was," he continued, but not bitterly. "You said he was a coward, and maybe he was. And maybe he was just human."

Rose blinked. "Human?"

"Human."

They dwelled quietly in their differences, sides cold against the snow-blown pane. Finally, Scorpius gestured from across the seat. "Come here."

She never thought she'd hear that phrase out of him, not unless he was waiting with a wand and a hex. Now that she thought about it, that had probably already happened. "What d'you mean. I'm right here."

He shook his head, almost smiling. "No you're not."

And so, pretending not to want to, she scooted across the ledge and sat, between his knees, head in the crook of his neck. Despite his constantly cool exterior, he was warm against her skin, and she couldn't help thinking, after his description of his father, that _he_ was human. She could feel his heart beating against her shoulder blade. She wondered if he was nervous; and suddenly, just like that, she felt the nerves fluttering in her own stomach. Just weeks ago that fluttering would have been fury. But _nerves_??

"Oh," she said suddenly. "It's best you don't tell Albus about this. He'll go utterly insane."

And Scorpius laughed, a real laugh, breath on her neck and happiness in his chest as he shook against her back. He laughed and laughed, and Rose thought it wasn't even funny. When she asked him what he was laughing about, he replied, voice still smiling, "Things really have changed."

Sometimes, to change the face of a generation, all that is needed is one simple motion. In a world where they could do nothing but fight over a window seat, they made the gesture and, hearts fluttering, shared it.

A/N: Short chapter, but I don't think it needs to be longer. Old readers, THANK YOU for keeping up with this story, and new readers, hope you keep reading!!


	16. Chapter 15: The Gryffindor Lion

**A/N: **Hope everyone had a great Christmas/Holiday season!! In the spirit of, well, having time to write over vacation, I'm throwin up a new chapter. I'm also glad to see quite a few new readers; you always make me happy. ;)

I'm trying something different with the point of view; tell me what ya think, I absolutely love to hear it, good or bad.

**Chapter 15**

**The Gryffindor Lion**

Albus was eight the first time he was subject to the painful throngs of protection.

It was summer; he, James, and Rose were finally allowed out of the Potters' yard while Lily and Hugo, too young to roam, were stuck inside the property boundaries. This meant they were free to sneak candy from the corner shop, watch movies at the cinema, and, best of all, pour through the many Muggle games and gadgets at Godric's Hollow's best toy store. It also meant that they ran into many new "friends."

Rose's "friend" was named Logan Kirchen; though a Muggle, she was constantly inviting him over to the Potters' pond (causing Ginny to quickly stash the wands, robes, and any other wizard paraphernalia in the cupboard under the stairs). They swam together, ran through the yards together, and laughed together. That was when he broke her heart, deciding he preferred the bookseller's pig-tailed daughter three yards over. Rose was devastated; she wouldn't return to Godric's Hollow for an entire week.

Albus and his father dropped by her house after buying owl feed down the street. She was holed up in her room; unusual for Rose, seeing as she didn't like being bound by closed spaces. Her braids hung limply at her shoulders as she scribbled through old Little Witch coloring books.

"Coloring?" he observed, shutting the door behind him and sitting beside his cousin on the rug. "You hate coloring."

"Shut up!"

He did, just that once. The sight of her, sad and noncomplacent, was enough to let him know that this was no ordinary Rose Weasley tantrum. This, this was a stranger sitting before him, fingers curled around MagiSparkle crayons and scrawling outside the lines (drawing inside the lines had always been too plain.)

Albus thought about it. He thought about how happy Rose had been, thought about how strange she was acting now. Thought about how good it would feel to crush Logan Kirchen's face with a rock. "He's a stupid idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know." And that was when she started crying. She turned her face away, big tears sliding down her cheeks as her face screwed up. Albus hated that face; he didn't think he'd seen it since she fell off her broom when they were six. "But he was so nice! It's not fair!"

"I know. It's not fair," echoed Albus comfortingly. She flung a crayon in his direction.

"No you _don't_ know! You weren't there!"

"Okay, I wasn't - "

_"Stop agreeing with me!" _

Albus walked out of the Weasley household that day forehead marked up with blue and green crayons and pride broken in half. Looking back at the house squeezed between two others (Diagon Alley houses were build upwards instead of out), he promised himself Rose would never, _never_ have to go through that again. At least not with him around.

The Gyffindor table was subdued Monday evening; students huddled over their meals under a ceiling portraying an overcast nighttime sky. Albus and Sara Blackburn were in the middle of constructing a Potions diagram when the hushed rumor began to slither its way among the House tables. Fortunately, Albus didn't hear them; the sightings of Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy passed right over his head as he shuffled through wormroot histories and russel weed sketches.

Sara Blackburn, unfortunately, did. "Is your cousin dating anyone right now?" She was not known for her secrecy.

"Which one?" he asked without looking up.

"The crazy one. Rose?"

Albus shrugged, taking the textbook from her to scribble notes in the margin. "I don't know. I doubt it. Rose isn't good with relationships, y'know?"

Sara flung her hair over her shoulder. She was very proud of that hair. It had been flicking him in the face since they were First Years. "Yeah, but it's not like she's got the chance."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well," she said, smiling grimly, "She's got you. And James. And Hugo."

He thought about it. True, the Weasley family did tend to repel. He could distantly remember the rare occasions Rose had introduced the ideas of her boys to the family: Third Year, when she'd briefly dated that pompous Quidditch-loving ass, she'd decided it was a good idea to bring him home for Christmas. Bad move. Hugo, Fred and Roxanne spent the entire vacation tagging after him and telling him scarring stories about Rose as a child and parading her nude baby pictures around the house. Needless to say, he left for Hogwarts early that year. And then there was the summer after Fourth, when Rose professed her feelings for the bookshop keeper down the street . . . to Molly and Lucy. The two, of course, tattled to Albus, who mentioned it to James, who in turn decided to approach the bookshop keeper. It ended badly. James' pride wasn't the same for a month after Rose hexed him inside and out during the incident.

Albus could only shrug. "She shouldn't pick such worthless bums every time, then maybe we'll lay off. We're only doing her good."

"Well." She smirked smugly, going back to their studying. "If I had you for a cousin, I would beat you bloody the next time you scared a guy off. That's not your place."

"Not my place? Not my place when I have her best interests at heart?"

Albus supposed it really wasn't his business who his cousin dated. It shouldn't have mattered to him which guys she chose to bring home, which guys she decided to "study" with, which guys she played Quidditch with. None of it should have mattered, that is, if it wasn't _Rose_ they were protecting. Rose Weasley was, though she rarely liked to admit it, impulsive. She picked up the most egotistical wizards at a moment's notice, wizards who ended up backing out of each and every relationship because they just couldn't take her mood swings. She called it her intuition. Albus called it her hormones.

Roxanne attacked him from behind, tousling his hair and sending his glasses spinning across the table. "Happy Christmas, cuz!"

His world went blurry, the colors of Sara Blackburn's scarf blending with her face in a collidoscope of images. Did he miss something here? "It's not Christmas, Roxanne, I was _with_ you on Christmas."

She scooted a First Year over to sit on the edge of the table, stealing a roll in the process. "Yeah, well, you see, we're trying to convince Alder Bryons – you know, that Prefect ass from Ravenclaw – that it is. Told him Professor Grey simply couldn't bear having all his students away for the Holidays, and is now recreating it."

Al rolled his eyes. "You're crazy."

"So far, we've gotten half of the Ravenclaws to wish him a good Christmas, about four of his friends to give him gifts, and Lee Jordan and Peeves to decorate the foyer. We said the Headmaster wants the Prefects to get together and perform a song and dance at the end of the evening."

"Does he believe you?" scoffed Sara from across the table.

Roxanne patted herself on the shoulder. "I think he's rehearsing now."

As tempting as it was, he really had Potions to get to; something about Al Potter and Potions simply did not mix. He could be given the task of boiling water and still mess it up. Come to think of it, he had done just that as a Third Year. "So," he said, turning to his cousin, "Did you have a reason to bother us, or is there something else brewing in the conversation you've started?" Ha. 'Brewing.' Potions homework. He was so . . . punny . . .

Next she decided to help herself to some of Al's butter. Right off the top of his pasta. "Well, I _was_ going to recruit you with Mission:Bryons, but when I saw you studying so intently, I figured, 'Hey, I'll leave Al alone, just this once; he sucks at Potions, so I may as well let him be.' And so I went, 'what about Rose?' And that was when I realized I haven't seen Rose since coming back to Hogwarts. You have any idea where she could be?" Roxanne had a way of narrating her precise thoughts, as if she assumed that everyone else found them of vast importance. Albus usually did not.

Now that she mentioned Rose, he discovered he hadn't seen the curly-haired Ravenclaw anywhere since their return. She'd been in class, what few classes they had together, but he rarely even saw her eating at the Ravenclaw Table during meals. It couldn't be that he just didn't notice her, he was sure of it; if there was anyone he knew that could be described as _noticeable_, Rose would be at the top of the list.

After he shook his head, she turned to Sara. "What about you? You're in our Year. Seen her?"

When a Blackburn smirked, she _really_ smirked. The corners of Sara's mouth curled with the secret knowledge that Rose's own cousins did not yet know. "I don't know if 'seen' is the right word. More like . . . 'stumbled upon.'"

Both Weasley leaned forward, intrigued.

She smirked even further at the well-received attention. "Well. I had heard the rumor, of course. It's hard _not_ to hear it, which is why I'm surprised that you two seem somewhat untouched by it. I mean, it's a pretty big deal, and if there's any truth to it – which I think there is – it's a big change. I mean, a _Big_. _Change_."

"Get on with it!" urged Roxanne, impatient as ever. She had set her stolen roll down by now.

Sara waved her impatience away. "Anyway. I was on my way back from Astronomy. The halls were relatively empty, with the exception of the Bloody Baron, which is probably why they were so empty, come to think of it. So, I was in a hurry to get back to the Common Room, and I was rushing, and, just when I rounded the bend - "

"_How's everyone's Christmas?!_"

The small group glanced up at Fred in irritation. He shrugged. "Not too cheerful, I take it? Some people just need to buy some spirit."

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "I believe that's the second time a Weasley interrupted me to wish me a happy Christmas on a day that's not even Christmas. Think much?"

He pretended to ponder it over. "I dunno. Give-a-shit much?"

"That doesn't even make sense, you troll!"

Fred and Sara had been a thing about a year ago. It did not go over well for either party. Most Fourth Year-Sixth Year relationships didn't. Al shook his head. Oh, to be a Fourth Year again. Passion and pettiness, that was what they chose to thrive on. He found himself glad to have been too busy protecting Rose's personal life as a Fourth Year to get one of his own.

Roxanne chose that moment to kick her twin in the thigh from her perch on the table. "Hey. Shut up. Sara was just about to give us the dirt on Rose."

"What?" He faked shock, clutching his chest. "Dirt . . . on Rose? But that girl is so rule-abiding, how could anyone ever have any dirt on _her_?"

Sara stuck out her lip. "We don't need the sarcasm, Weasley. You wanna hear the tale or not?"

"Any tale that comes out of _your_ mouth I don't want to hear."

And so came the end of Albus' tolerance for the conversation. Separating his notes from Sara's, he stood and shuffled out of the Great Hall as the clouds above parted to make way for a fine scattering of stars on the enchanted ceiling. Though Al did his best studying in crowded rooms, he needed a few supplementary books from the library for his Potions, and besides, he wasn't going to get anything done among the Gryffindor gossip.

Pacing up the staircase, he felt the pressure of his schoolwork settling on his shoulders already. Even though they'd just gotten back from break, he knew, he just _knew_, they had no time to relax before settling into the routine; the professors would pounce, they always did, seizing the opportunity to heap unnecessary piles of homework and exams on their unsuspecting students. Groaning at post-Christmas classes of past, Al put a hand to his head. He knew he was a worrier, always had been. Worried about his sister finding out what she wanted in life, worried about his Don Juan of a brother impregnating some poor witch, worried about his parents' finances, worried about Rose and her wild-often-thoughtless ways, worried about his classes. And now, he realized, he'd been so busy worrying he had forgotten the better half of his Transfiguration papers back in the Great Hall. He debated going back for them or continuing to the Gryffindor Common Room. He was halfway there, after all. In the end, "what was best for him" won over, and he strode back down the twisting and turning staircases.

However, "what was best for him" turned out to be a misleading guide; instead of taking him straight to the Great Hall and his awaiting notes, it forced him to stop before the double doors in the entrance hall as they opened, slowly, allowing in the winter chill, and two very familiar faces.

His wild, auburn-haired cousin was grinning the widest he'd seen her in ages, brushing the snow off of two Malfoy shoulders. Al stopped dead in his tracks; his senses shrieked something wasn't right, something was horribly off in the scope of his universe. He could only watch as Malfoy kissed the snowflakes from Rose's eyelashes, hands wound tightly in her hair as if he would never let go. To Al, those hands were poised to pull, those lips were poised to spout insults; Scorpius Malfoy was, after all, a scorpion, and he couldn't help the killing strike that would soon come.

Al clenched his fist. He would not let this monster hurt his cousin, his old best friend. He refused. His voice shook when he said her name. Both spun around in mid-sentence; Malfoy's hands dropped from Rose, she opened her mouth to say something, and time froze.

Funny, Al thought, how the worst moments seemed to pause in lengthened silence while the best flew by.


	17. Chapter 16: Just a Walk

**Chapter 16**

**Just a Walk**

To say the least, Scorpius was distracted all Monday. Rose's face slid in and out throughout class, from morning to afternoon; she threw secret smiles across the room during Transfiguration, touching his hand in Potions when she passed him by to retrieve her group's ingredients, refusing to eat near him at mealtimes, instead daunting him from the other end of the table every time. He couldn't help pulling her aside just after their last class.

"If I didn't know better," he murmured into her neck as they ducked into a side corridor, "I'd think you were avoiding me. But I see that happy little smirk on your face."

And she just laughed, taking both his hands in hers. "How do you know I wasn't, huh? I mean, what with me naturally hating your guts, of course I'm going to avoid you." Footsteps echoed close outside the corridor; too close for comfort, as it turned out. Rose looked up at him, still clinging to his hands. "Let's go for a walk outside."

"A walk." Scorpius glanced out the window at the white expanse stretching across the grounds. "But there's over a foot of snow out there."

Nevertheless, she began dragging him down the corridor, hurrying as the footsteps drew closer. "If you're going to be hanging out with me, you need to learn to love the obstacles."

So like her. Scorpius wondered how he could say "just like her" when they had only just begun their beginning. Had hating her enabled him to learn all the little things about her in time? Had it led them to become closer? His thoughts traveled to Professor Grey and his Chinese theories: Hate is not the opposite of love. If they truly had been neutrals, would they have ended up rushing down a dark corridor hand-in-hand after classes? Or would they have remained strangers forever?

Though Scorpius prided himself on his internal map of the castle, Rose knew the secret hallways and passages better than he ever could. She led them down winding passageways he'd never noticed before, out-of-sight staircases that were barely wide enough for them to walk single-file, and out a hidden door that led into the Transfiguration courtyard. The snow was swirling as they stepped into the cold; it wasn't really snowing. The wind picked up stray pieces of snow and tossed them through the air. They shivered together, wading through the white thickness.

"_Accio_ some cloaks for us," she sighed, releasing him to spring ahead, out of the courtyard, and into the grounds. "You were always better at that one than me."

He tilted his head. "You were watching me? Way back in Fourth Year?"

"Of course I watched you. Had to protect myself, didn't I?"

Scorpius did her bidding anyway, the smooth wood of his wand cold between his fingers. His accio spell was one of his strongest, always had been. He wasn't sure why. It made him proud to be able to master a spell that Rose couldn't effortlessly perform better than him (which almost always happened, sadly). He was still irritated by the fact that she could sprint her way through life without even trying, but now, he accepted it as a part of her he could learn to love.

What? Learn to love? Did he just think that? Scorpius shook his head, realizing he was still brushing his real feelings aside, something he'd been doing since birth. Who had taught him that? His father? His mother? Or had he, in order to cope with his self-produced loneliness?

The lake was frozen once they reached it; Rose climbed the great rock beside the shore, one both of them had studied on in the past (separately, of course) and threw her arms out. "Smell that?" she cried. "_That_ is leftover Christmas spirit. Just enough to fill you up with warmth."

His breath billowed in the air. "Not enough here; I'm freezing. You sure you want to be out here?"

Leaning down, Rose took him by the elbows and helped him join her on the rock. "I'm sure I want to be here with you." Her eyes shone with something other than their usual hatred towards him. "I know it," she said. He couldn't help sliding his arms around her, cradling her head to his chest. He wanted to keep those words alive forever. They etched in him possibility.

Her chin was soft and cold, cold and soft. He traced it up to her ear, tinged with red in the weather. "I've forgotten what it's like to kiss someone," he told her. He knew she was going to ridicule him.

And ridicule she did. "You haven't, Mr. Pessimistic," replied Rose. "What about that one on the platform, just before leaving? Or am I too unforgettable?"

She had always been anything but forgettable. Always. Whether she was scheming in the back of a classroom or turning her wand on him in a crowded hall and earning detentions for them both, he could never forget her. "It's just been awhile," he decided to reply simply, watching her bite her lip and shrug coyly. They cast _aqueci_ on the rock and sat on its now-warm surface as the magic seemed to rise and swell beneath them in waves of warmth. So followed the conversation of Scorpius' life: They talked about past relationships; Scorpius admitted he had never been in a serious one, Rose admitted all of her previous boys were rarely good choices. They talked about their childhoods; Scorpius, his impossibly impassive parents and Rose, her heroic and hard-working family that she sometimes didn't quite place into. She told him she despised her mother's professional perfection more and more as the days wore on; he told her his father still thought he was in Slytherin. They discussed music, politics, and books (or rather, Scoprius tried to explain the latest philosophic literature he was reading, and Rose tried to take it in). They both decided that, if they could be any type of precipitation, it would be snow.

"Don't you ever get lonely?" Rose asked him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He stretched his full body out on the rock, taking her with him. He could smell her hair, cinnamon and new leaves lingering below his nose. He prayed it wouldn't go away any time soon.

Scorpius thought about it. Of course he did. Of course there had been moments when he would, as a little boy, watch the other children he'd alienated himself from and wish it was he they'd smile at; of course he sometimes felt the overwhelming absence in his empty hand when he passed by a cuddling couple on a stray Hogwarts bench; and of course library enlightenment did get a little dull as a group of students began a game of Quidditch on the pitch outside the window. But he supposed that, if anyone were be lonely and live easily with it, it was him. "Probably less so than you would if you were me," he replied, reaching a hand down to tangle in her curls.

He could feel her sigh. "How do you handle it?"

"By not being you," he laughed against her. "I don't always have to be talking to someone, touching someone, or telling someone every second of my day. I get more things done this way; relationships bring complications."

Rose sat up, the wind grasping at her hair. "Am I a complication?"

Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy . . . he still couldn't quite believe this. "I'm sure you will be," he replied quietly. She frowned. The truth hung, painfully obvious, in the space between them. "But you're the one complication I want to live with."

She smiled. He wasn't sure if she couldn't help it, or if she just smiled at everything. Even when they hated each other, he rarely saw her without that brightening grin. Where it used to infuriate him, it now sent shivers up and down his skin.

In the dead of winter, they could not see the sunset; the clouds obscured the sky as it gradually shifted to darkness. Before they knew it, hours had passed, and they sat below the stars. He only held her closer as they told each other strange secrets and embarrassing stories. They discussed that strange, but not forgotten,'s' symbol; they tried to understand the continued prejudices hidden, half-benign but also half-alive, in the wizarding world.

Rose leaned over then, fingers grazing the sensitive spot behind his neck, and kissed him; for such a spirited person, he found her surprisingly soft, gentle, but always with the possibility of an uncontrollable future. In a way, his lips brought her down to earth; he controlled her energy the way he had to. They nestled between the cold wind above them and the warm rock below. Scorpius found himself enveloped in one of those strange moments in which you realize you'll be content to be trapped in it for the rest of time. He could not remember the last time he'd had such a moment. She ran her fingers down his skin. "There's so much controversy about blood that I don't understand." Their heartbeats pulsed together as she lay against him. "When it comes down to it, to these moments when it's just you and me and me and you, does it really matter? Does it matter how much magic is hidden below your skin or mine? How much Muggle flows in our veins? Magic gets us by, but . . ." She kissed his neck, just against his pulse. ". . . It's something else that creates its own wonder, right here and now, between us, that's a world more magical than magic itself."

Was it too soon to tell her he thought her spirit was the most beautiful he'd ever witnessed?

They circled the lake arm-in-arm; Rose terrified him by testing the frozen outer edges, sliding along carelessly as if cracks-in-the-ice did not exist in her life. They wandered their way into a late-evening snowfall, flakes catching in their hair and cloaks. The tips of their wands guided the way as they beat a path around the lake, footsteps sinking into the snow.

"I've never had such a great Monday night," she said as they approached the Entrance Hall. "Usually, I'd be thinking about studying, doing stupid stuff with David and Caitlin, and finishing everything in a rush after midnight. You?"

He laughed. He liked her making him laugh. "I approach my Monday nights a little differently."

"Oh?" She paused on the ice-slicked steps; the torches burning on each side of the great double doors sent shadows flickering across her face.

Scorpius hauled the doors open. "Usually, I finish all my work – unlike you – because I actually care about the grades that get sent home, ignore my parents' letters, and try not to think about hating you. Because you've done something to provoke me every single Monday, I'm sure."

"Hey!" She pulled him close for additional warmth as they wandered into the empty Hall. "Don't let all the blame land on me! If I ever provoked you, it was because you provoked _me_ first."

There was snow tucked in her robe collar, in her hair, in her eyelashes. "Well," he said, before bending down to kiss the snowflakes away, "You were very good at your provocation, in any case." Her eyelids fluttered beneath his lips. When he pulled back again, her usual smile was gone.

"Scorpius." She was serious now. "I've been meaning to ask, though I keep thinking things will get strange if I do . . . . What are we? What is this?" She gestured to the unspoken between them. Scorpius wasn't sure he was going to answer. Instead, another voice took his place a few meters away.

"Rose?"

Both turned sharply; the Potter cousin with the pompous name stood on the staircase, arms hanging limp at his sides. His expression seemed struck by something he thought he'd never see: an expression of utter shock and horror.

Scorpius backed away from Rose as though he had done something wrong. This reaction itself angered him. Rose put a hand to her mouth. "Al. I . . . We didn't know you were there."

Potter blinked; once, twice, three times. The trio stood in complete silence. That silence strengthened into a roaring threat, at least to Scorpius; it would have been easier if the idiot could've just unloaded a pile of insults on them and stormed off, leaving the couple to laugh at his irrationality. But this? This was different. Albus' expression of horror slid into one of extreme disappointment, sadness. His shoulders rose as he inhaled the situation; his eyes dulled in the sadness he saw before him. And before either Rose or Scorpius could say a word, he'd turned on his heel and continued his way up the stairs.

"Al! I'm so sorry!" Beside him, Rose made a motion to go after him. Her sentence stabbed him in the heart.

Scorpius grabbed her wrist as she went. When she looked at him, the absolute joy that refused to leave her face that night was gone at last. "Hey – _hey - _," he struggled to hold her back as she tried to twist out of his grasp "- leave him alone."

"What?!" she cried in response. He hadn't anticipated this. "Al's my cousin, Scorpius. I need to talk to him."

"What do you care what he thinks?"

She stopped struggling, shaking her head. Things were changing, and fast. "What do I _care_? We used to be best friends. He's helped me through more than you ever will. Of course I care about him, of course I care what he thinks of me. I can't even . . . _believe_ you just said that."

And she was off, cloak flying behind her, racing up the staircase and out of sight before Scorpius had time to gather his thoughts. A second ago, he had been the happiest he had been in a long, long while, and with _her_. Now she was running away from him to console one of his biggest enemies. Was this how their relationship was going to go? Drastic mood changes and argumentative misunderstandings?

Scorpius sighed, running his hand through his kiss-mussed hair in frustration. Needless to say, he did not sleep well that night.

And the worst part? She'd felt the need to say "I'm sorry" for being with him.

-

As promised long before Christmas, Scorpius met up with the Slytherins at the Hog's Head that weekend, which also happened to be the next Hogsmeade weekend. The pub's ancient sign hung eerily lopsided outside, as per usual. After Aberforth Dumbledore died some time ago, the pub's ownership flickered between a few black-market dealers over the years; Scorpius wasn't even sure who owned it now. He rarely had reason to venture into Hogsmeade. Occasionally Miles brought up the idea, but he'd rather chew off his right arm than spend a day with that idiot.

They were seated at the table farthest from the door but closest to the window; strangled light filtered in through the grime littering the pane. Only Zabini and Harlett, a Slytherin girl in his Year, had ordered something; their drinks bubbled away softly across the table, steam hissing below their chatter. Thing was, there wasn't much chatter.

With a sparse nod of his head, Zabini named off each Slytherin. Doyle, Hum, Cydian. They all held the same expressionless expression. Scorpius wasn't sure what his reaction should've been as he was introduced to each one. Smile, maybe? However, judging by the air surrounding the group, he guessed these were not people who particularly liked to be smiled at. Good. Scorpius didn't like to pretend, just like them.

"You may be wondering why you're here," began Zabini, stirring his steaming drink with the tip of his wand.

Actually, Scorpius was sure he knew. His last name completed his full resume for these types of Slytherins: Malfoy. Why would they invite him otherwise?

"You're quiet," he continued. "You don't do what everyone else does. People always wonder what you're thinking."

He sincerely doubted that. "You think, because I don't voice my opinions, that I agree with you and your . . . policies?" He knew his tone should not have been so cold, but he couldn't help just a drop of disgust leaking into his voice.

Harlett sat up across the table. "How can you agree with us if you don't know those policies?" Her lips were frighteningly red against her pale skin; Scorpius was reminded of a snake about to strike. The door up front opened, letting in a gust of cold air; the Slytherins nodded at the two dark robe-clad wizards who entered. Apparently the group frequented the Hog's Head a little too often. It had always been a place where shady deeds were carried out without prying ears, and today was no exception.

Beside him, Hum, the only Slytherin in the group whom Scorpius did not consider staggeringly tall, steepled his fingers. "Have you ever heard of The League, Malfoy?"

He blinked, staring round at his fellow students, beginning to realize that secrets were no longer scarce at Hogwarts, even after The Second War fixed the problem of prejudice with a hasty band-aid applied by The Boy Who Lived. And so, pushing Rose out of his mind, he said, "I'd like to."

And thus, in the dimness of the Hog's Head Inn on a dreary morning in January, his enlightenment began.

-

**A/N: **Happy New Year, everyone!! Here's to hoping everyone else out there had as great an opening to 2009 as I did! Resolutions, anyone?  
Also, I thought I'd take this opportunity to stress just how important reviews turn out to be to authors. Nothing makes me happier than seeing a review pop up in my inbox. Really. Honestly. Sooo, just click that little box at the bottom of the page and make my LIFE.

Thanks!


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